


An Epic for the Ages

by CrazyStorySpinner



Series: Legacy of the Last [2]
Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Action/Adventure, Adventure & Romance, Ambiguous Relationships, Angst, Anxiety Attacks, Betrayal, Depression, Developing Friendships, Developing Relationship, F/M, Fate & Destiny, Misunderstandings, Paranoia, Personal Growth, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Slight Canon Divergence, Slow Burn, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-24
Updated: 2021-02-03
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:54:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 16
Words: 81,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24356146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrazyStorySpinner/pseuds/CrazyStorySpinner
Summary: And so it begins--the birth of the legend many have come to know...or so they think. Songs are sung about her defeat of Alduin, history books claim they know all about what happened, but they don't. She didn't want to be Dragonborn, but no one really cares about that. After all, that's what she was--in fact, that's all she was, right? Wrong. Krosa was more than that, and this is the story of everything that happened.
Relationships: Brynjolf/Dovahkiin | Dragonborn, Brynjolf/Female Breton Dovahkiin | Dragonborn, Brynjolf/Female Dovahkiin | Dragonborn
Series: Legacy of the Last [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1758433
Comments: 13
Kudos: 79





	1. Like a Whisper in the Wind

  
  


Delphine is growing tired of waiting, and they’re running out of time. _Surely the Dragonborn would have found it by now._ There is the off-chance that the Greybeards won’t send them there so soon, but Delphine doubts that’s the case. She knows they would want to keep their involvement minimal, despite their claims of upholding the honor of their predecessors. Pacifists to a fault. She only hopes the Dragonborn has more steel in their bones than them. She is supposed to have the blood of a dragon, after all.

A woman enters the tavern then—one whom Delphine recognizes immediately. _Did Farengar send her after me?_ Her mind goes to the tablet tucked away in the hidden basement. Farengar was not happy that she refused to let him keep it. She resents any knowledge she is forced to give to the sniveling mage. He already knows too much, and Delphine’s own knowledge is limited enough. And she was the one who retrieved it. Farengar has no actual claim. But that doesn’t mean he won’t try to take it.

Delphine watches as she slowly makes her way to the counter, eyeing the room and patrons with a dark gaze. She’s clearly in no mood for talking, and everything about her screams danger. Delphine wonders how much of a problem she would be if she chose to start anything. Taking her out should be relatively easy, but it will have to be done quietly.

“What do you have to eat?”

“We’ve got some venison stew left, and maybe some cheese. As for drinks, I only serve water or milk this late.”

“Stew and water are fine.”

"How much stew do you want?" Delphine asks as politely as she’s able.

"How much can you give me?

“I’ll see what I can do.“ Delphine says, repressing a smirk. “Make yourself comfortable.”

The woman didn’t seem to recognize her. Maybe she’s not here for her at all, or maybe she doesn’t plan on doing anything yet. In any case, Delphine will stay alert. The woman sits at the table furthest from the other customers and watches Delphine go to the back with a look in her eye that Delphine doesn’t like. Delphine brings her a pitcher of water and a large bowl of the stew, tempted to spit in it, but nothing’s been proven yet and she’s not _that_ unprofessional. The woman pokes at her food tentatively at first, before scarfing it down like a starving dog. She’s never seen someone eat so fast. When the woman finishes off her water just as quickly, Delphine returns to the table.

“Couldn’t help but notice you scarf down your food. Are you sure you don’t want anything else to eat?” She asks, mildly impressed.

“I’ll be fine, but I am going to spend the night.” The woman says, getting to her feet. ”Do you have an attic room I could stay in?”

Delphine’s jaw nearly drops. _She’s the Dragonborn?_

“Is there a problem?”

“Well, we don’t have an attic room, but you can have the one on the left,” Delphine says, before turning to go through the back. 

“Don’t I have to pay you first?” 

“I’ll return shortly. You can pay me then.” The woman shrugs before heading into the room. Delphine quickly makes her way to Orgnar’s room in the back, her head racing. _And to think I was ready to kill her if I had to._ Delphine thinks, laughing at herself. She was always told she was far too impulsive. Her heart squeezes at the memories of her former companions. After all those years of hiding from the Thalmor, she can finally act. She can finally avenge them, can finally do what they always dreamed of doing. She can restore the Blades to their former glory. 

“Orgnar. I need you to man the front!” She shouts, banging on his door. ”Can you hear me?”

“It’s hard not to.”

“Then go do it!” The door opens, and he pushes past her with an irritated glare. “Don’t give me that look, I’ve been out there all day.”

“You’re the one responsible for that.” He calls out, before entering the dining hall. Delphine ignores him and takes a moment to gather herself before heading into the Dragonborn’s room. She’s sitting at the chair, sharpening her sword. 

“Damn it.” She hears her say, bringing a finger to her mouth. “Knocking would have been nice.” Delphine hesitates at that, but she’s not in the mood for apologizing.

“Come with me.” She says, opening the wardrobe and heading down the stairs. _This is it._ The woman grumbles but follows. “Close the door behind you,” Delphine calls out when she makes it to the desk and hears the sound of the latch. The woman makes it to the bottom of the steps. “Now we can talk.”

“Where’s the horn?” Delphine smirks. _At least she knows how to get down to business._

“If I were planning on just handing it over to you, I’d have left it in the tomb,” Delphine says, crossing her arms. ”You still have some things to prove.”

“What do you want then?”

“The Greybeards seem to think you’re Dragonborn. I hope they’re right.” 

“Are they usually not?” The woman asks, and Delphine wonders how loyal she is to them. She’ll have to be careful about that in the future.

“Let’s just say I have little faith in them. Our ideologies are vastly different.”

“Get to the point,” The woman says impatiently.

“I’ll get to the point whenever I want, got it? I need to know if I can trust you before I tell you anything else.” Delphine says, glaring. The woman seems to barely notice it.

“How do I know I can trust you?” She asks, and Delphine scoffs.

“If you don’t trust me, you were a fool to walk in here in the first place. You’d already be dead if I didn’t like the look of you.” The woman only rolls her eyes, and it’s all Delphine can do not to lash out at her again.

“Wouldn’t that have made all of this pointless?” 

“Only if you really were Dragonborn.” Delphine pauses, waiting for a reaction. The woman doesn’t say anything, only holds her gaze, so she continues. ”And if you are, that means I’ve been looking for you… well, someone like you for a very long time and I’m actually trying to help you, so hear me out.”

The woman crosses her arms. “Give me the horn first.”Delphine narrows her eyes, about to say something, but is beaten to it “That is the only way you’ll get me to cooperate. If you don’t you can consider all your efforts to help me futile. I’ll find another way to get the horn.”

Delphine scoffs. “So you do have some backbone: surprising, considering the Greybeards like to snuff that out.” Delphine goes to the chest, pushing it aside and taking the horn out of the wall before marching across the room and shoving it into her hands “Here. Take it, but I— Wait, where are you going?” She asks as the woman turns and takes a step up the stairs.

“I had a job to do. I’ll come back when I’m done.”

“What? No, you can’t!” The woman ignores her. “Wait,” Delphine demands, grabbing her arm and pulling her to a stop. The woman glares at her. “Please. We’ll be too late if we don’t do it now.”

“Do what?” The woman asks, yanking her arm from her grasp.

“Remember the job Farengar refused to give you?” The woman nods. “Well, we wanted to get the Dragonstone— a map of dragon burial sites. I assume you know the dragons are being resurrected, correct? Well, I’ve figured out the pattern. The one at Kynesgrove is next.”

“Kynesgrove? That’s days away.”

“If my calculations are correct and we leave before dawn, we’ll get there just in time… And once I see you absorb a dragon’s soul, I’ll tell you more of what I know.”

“Alright, but if you try anything,—” 

“The same goes for you.”

The woman sighs. ‘Then let’s get this over with.”

* * *

Ulfric set out as soon as he heard the news. Someone was spotted climbing the steps to High Hrothgar, and that someone has to be the Dragonborn. Ulfric doesn’t know why else anyone would attempt such a thing this time of year. He’s only attempting it because he’s done it many times before, and he’s not going to miss his chance. He knows that the Greybeards won’t offer the Dragonborn much, and his past with them can now be used as an advantage.

He was young when he first went to train with them and to live a life of solitude, seclusion, and study for years. It was a dull life for a boy, but he was chosen. His father couldn't say no, not to an honor such as this. Being chosen by the Greybeards is far greater than any title that would have been bestowed on him. So he threw himself into it, learning faster and growing stronger than they could anticipate. They often told him he was their best student— that one day he would take Arngeir’s place. He wanted nothing more— Ulfric scoffs at the thought. How could he have wanted anything else when that life was all he knew?

One day he couldn’t help it. Ulfric escaped. There was a festival, one he remembered distantly of going to. It came by every year, and one year the temptation was too great. He met a girl, Laila. Ulfric smirks— there were many firsts that day. He got a taste of life and afterward hungered for it ever since. He would escape the mountain more often, would send notes with the deliverer and Laila was always ready to receive him.

It wasn’t long till the Greybeards found out and tensions grew between them. Ulfric refused to stop leaving and they eventually gave in, but whenever they suspected he had left the next day his training was more intense and his list of chores would grow longer. He bore it to keep the peace, but he always knew it wouldn’t last. Deep in his heart, he knew he no longer wanted that life. He would give it all up for Laila if he could. But he was chosen, so he had to stay.

Then the war came and everything changed. 

* * *

_“Your lust for this woman has corrupted you!”_

_“There is no corruption, only the truth! My eyes have been opened to a different life— a greater purpose, one that’s more than growing old and dying on this mountain having done nothing that really matters! What’s the point in all this training and power if I never get to use it!”_

_“Power does not mean privilege, my boy, it means responsibility!”_

_“I’m not talking about privilege! I’m talking about opportunity! We have the chance to help our fellow men. With us on the battlefield—”_

_“We aren’t heroes, Ulfric. We can’t win their fights for them; that is not our place! Your hunger for purpose has led you astray! Joining in the fight will not tame the fire of mer and men, you will only be fanning the flames!”_

_“And your passiveness has led you nowhere. I refuse to be a part of this— of nothing! Whether or not it goes up in flames, I will not stay here. I see now that there’s no honor in it. “_

_“Are you truly speaking of honor, Ulfric, or glory?”_

* * *

_Both,_ Ulfric admits to himself, he wanted both. And he got neither. He returned to Skyrim a broken man. He couldn’t live with himself for his failure— but he thought he could live with Laila, but she had already given herself away. He couldn’t blame her. He was supposed to be dead, but he could blame the Empire. Their cowardice and passivity was responsible for this. The treaty was a sham— they knew it and still they had it signed. They were no better than the Greybeards, but there was nothing Ulfric could do about it. Nothing but wait and take the chance when it came. And it did, it— 

Ulfric stopps when he realizes where he is. He’s made it. Just around the corner he will see High Hrothgar towering above him. He’s not sure he’s ready for that yet. Turning back is always an option— a poor one, but it’s there. _I am not a coward._ He makes it around the bend.

Ulfric marvels at the sight for a moment, nostalgia hitting him in the chest. All those years here and all those years away— he doesn’t know how to feel. But he does know how _they_ will feel. He wonders for a moment if he should sneak in— he certainly knows many different ways. But no, he’s better than that now. Bigger. He doesn’t need to hide like a rat: he’s more than that. He’s the Bear of Markarth, Jarl of Windhelm. He’ll use the front gate.

He pounds on the doors, knowing how hard of hearing they are . _How fitting_ , he thinks, now that he knows their true disposition. These men would let thousands of men suffer and die for their own moral superiority— for the traditions and teachings of their fathers. They wouldn’t even hear their cries. Part of him just wants to enter but knows that that will anger them more than his presence already will. 

The door opens.

“What are you doing here?”

* * *

"You can't save us single-handedly, Brynjolf," Sapphire says, leaning against his desk. 

Brynjolf sighs, hand tightening around his pen. The past few weeks have been nothing but work as Brynjolf does what he can to salvage what funds they have left. It’s bad enough that they’re already dangerously low on coin, but winter has always been harder on them. Usually, they’d have enough made from the rest of the year to get them through it without any major hiccups; now they will have to struggle to stay afloat.

"If I don't try to, who will?" he asks, defeated. The rest of the Guild were already getting lazy before winter came, save for a few, but a few isn’t enough. _Gallus would be so disappointed._ All his work will be for nothing. “I will not stand by and watch the Guild fail,” Brynjolf says, feeling his resolve strengthen. “Not when I can do something about it." _I have to do_ something _right._ His eyes go to her for a moment, before returning to his paperwork. He was almost done.

"Be real,” Sapphire says, taking the pen out of his hand and tossing it over her shoulder. Brynjolf gets to his feet, about to tell her off, but she silences him with a finger pressed against his lips. “What can you do about it? Everyone gave it their all, but we're still stuck at the bottom of the barrel!”

"Then what do you suggest I do, lass?”

“Me.” Brynjolf lets out a surprised bark of laughter at her bluntness, and she takes a step closer, hand falling to his chest with a wicked look on her face. "I mean it. Take a break. Relieve your stress.” She leans in close enough that their lips brush as she says, ”Come back and reevaluate."

"Is this real advice or part of your attempt to seduce me?" 

"Can't it be both? It has been a while."

 _Not just with you,_ Brynjolf thinks, wondering when the last time he had sex was. The past few weeks had him solely doing jobs, recruiting, and crunching numbers with Mercer who’s decided to start taking even more of their funds to prepare for Solitude. He hasn’t quite come to the decision yet, most of the others dislike the idea as much as Brynjolf. But Mercer always was cautious. And while he would gladly do for a roll in the sheets, he can’t help but remember the last time Sapphire wanted to sleep with him.

"Only because you don't know how to share…" Brynjolf takes her hands, lifting them off his chest. “Do you know how hard it was to convince the poor lass to stay after you tried throwing her out? I still don’t even know how you knew what room I was in.”

"What can I say?” She pulls her hands out of his grasp and gives him a sultry smirk. “I'm greedy. You know that." Brynjolf smiles, no one would accuse Sapphire of being anything otherwise.

"Come back in an hour," he says, moving around her to retrieve his pen. “I need to finish this.”

"Fine,” Sapphire huffs, “but you'll have to make up for the time missed."

Brynjolf smirks as he watches her leave, then goes back to the desk, eyes fixed on the bottom drawer containing Krosa’s things. _If only I wasn’t so stupid._ Even if she didn’t end up joining, she certainly would have made things more interesting. Her journal was interesting enough, though not very informative. _Which fits her perfectly._ He hasn’t finished reading it yet— hasn’t had the time or the motivation. There were even times where he’s forgotten she even existed, he was so absorbed in what he was doing. Maybe he’d have forgotten completely if her stuff wasn’t here to remind him she was ever here in the first place. 

_I wonder how she’s doing._ He doubts she’d be traveling across Skyrim in this weather if she’s even still here at all. Not to mention the word of dragons plaguing the land. If Krosa wasn’t going to leave before, that surely would have drawn her away.

It takes him only a few seconds to make up his mind, and he unlocks the drawer and pulls the book out. He rereads a few passages as he flips through the pages, trying to remember where he left off. A certain passage catches his eye, and his heart nearly jolts when he sees what’s written.

_‘I defeated some bastard called the Butcher. I still can’t believe the city officials did nothing about him. I got a lot of gold from it, way more than I should have. I think Ulfric was trying to bribe me. Arrogant bastard. I hope I never have to be in the same room as him again. Brynjolf can be trusted for the most part. He’s an ass, but he’s a helpful one.’_

Brynjolf smirks, wondering what else she said about him. He skims through each passage as he goes back, trying to find her first entries after coming to Skyrim. He smiles as he imagines what she must have written about him then.

_‘Just got a job that will take me out of Cyrodiil. It’s in Skyrim. I’m looking for a man named Brynjolf. The contractor told me he was a slippery one— flirtatious, crafty, and willing to do whatever it takes to survive. Ginger hair, green eyes, lilting accent. He lives in a city called Riften. I’m supposed to bring him to another city, Falkreath. Should be easy enough. It better not be as cold there as they say.’_

_‘Don’t ever go to Riften again, but if you do—_ _HAELGA’S BUNKHOUSE IS NOT AN INN._ _’_

Brynjolf stifles a laugh at that. _So that’s what she was talking about._ Oh, how he wishes he was there to see how that went down. A feeling hits him then, and he has to put the journal down. She’d kill him if she knew he was reading this. _But_ , Brynjolf reasons, _I already started_ . There’s no going back from that now, and if she ever found out it would be because she’s talking to him. _There’s just one more thing I need to see._ It doesn’t take long to find what he’s looking for, they were the last things she would have written about.

_‘Brynjolf asked me to join his guild again. This time I’m actually considering it, damn him. Should I accept his offer? I like him well enough, and he hasn’t given me any reason to doubt his intentions. I’ll have time to think about it in the ruins. I don’t even know why I’m writing about this.’_

‘ _I don’t know what Savos meant, and I still don’t know why he gave me the amulet, but it saved my life. Maybe I need to talk to Tolfdir now that I know more about what it does. Savos would say it’s cheating, but I find myself not caring. If only he weren’t so secretive, what’s even the point in being so cryptic?’_

_‘I think I’m going to give him a chance. I hope I don’t regret this.”_

_This was a mistake._ He tosses the journal back into the drawer, slamming it shut before resting his head in his hands. Brynjolf doesn’t know what to feel. He hopes that Sapphire will return soon. If not, he may have to seek her out himself. Whatever he was working on can wait.

* * *

“I am here to see the Dragonborn,” Ulfric states, only hesitating for a moment before answering. Part of him hoped the Dragonborn would be the one to greet him— not Arngeir. 

“The Dragonborn has no interest in you or your war.” 

Ulfric glares. “Why should I believe you?” 

“I assure you, I speak the truth. Those are the words of the Dragonborn.”

“Are you sure you’re not the ones who put them there?” Ulfric demands. It has only been a few weeks, but he knows from experience how persuasive they can be. They no doubt tried converting the Dragonborn’s mind to their ways as effectively as they could. Only the Thalmor are better at it than they are. 

“The Dragonborn has a mind of their own,” Arngeir states, a trace of humor in his voice.

“And how is that any different from me?” Ulfric asks, watching as the humor fades, something tugging inside of him when it’s replaced with anger.

“You and the Dragonborn walk different paths, my boy, and Fate favors the chosen.”

Ulfric scoffs. “I was chosen by you once.”

“I am not Fate, which is a good thing for I would have made a grave mistake.”

“And the Dragonborn is your attempt to make up for this mistake of yours?” He scoffs again, taking a step closer, ready to barge in if Arngeir chooses to slam the door in his face. “I’m sure it was an opportunity you couldn’t pass up.”

“It is not opportunity I speak of, but duty. We always knew that one day we would train the Last Dragonborn. If you had stayed, you could have been a part of it. Alas—” 

Ulfric doesn’t have the patience for this. “Where is he?” 

“He?” Arngier asks smugly, “Who are you speaking of?

“The Dragonborn. I will not leave until I talk to him.”

“I’m afraid that isn’t possible. The Dragonborn’s training is complete, and has already been sent on their way,” Arngeir states carefully, a secret hidden in his eyes.

“What?” Ulfric exclaims, taking a step forward. “It’s only been a few weeks!”

“It was enough.”

“You’re setting him up for failure. Have your loyalties switched? Did that dragon of yours—”

“You’re making a fool out of yourself, Ulfric. Your pride has blinded you, and soon it will destroy you.”

“Is that a threat?

“It is only the truth— isn’t that what you were seeking before all this happened? We have always spoken it— You may have seen a piece of it, convoluted it may be, but truth is truth, and it always remains the same.”

In all those years training here, he has never known Arngeir to be a liar— bigoted, yes— but honest. He also had the penchant of knowing things he shouldn’t. But there’s still the chance that he will reveal something— or say something with a hidden meaning. He always loved to do that. Ulfric used to appreciate it when struggling with his studies, Arngeir used to have a soft spot for him; his carefully crafted words always a clue to what he was missing.

“You still haven’t told me where the Dragonborn is.”

“Yes, I know, I did that on purpose.” Ulfric glares. “If only you were smarter. Perhaps you need another lesson on how to—”

“Enough of this. I don’t need another lesson from you. I wasted my time coming here.” Ulfric turns and starts walking away, not caring about anything Arngeir may be trying to tell him, but he hears Arngeir quietly say something just loud enough to reach Ulfric’s ears:

“Yes, you did, and you have little of it left.“ Ulfric stiffens and whirls around to face him. He expects Arngier to look triumphant, but he just looks tired. And regretful. Ulfric does not want his pity.

"What's that supposed to mean?” he snarls.

"If you're not careful, son, the Dragonborn will be your end."

“You’ve made mistakes before, Arngeir. It’s bound to happen again.”

Ulfric states, his temper boiling over— humiliated and denied. He doesn’t know why he tried. _You were hoping for it to be different, for all that time with them to mean something. It was foolish._ But at least now he knows the Dragonborn is out there— and maybe his time with the Greybeards was too brief to be converted to their ways. As he makes his way back down the mountain. He’ll have his whole way back to figure out where the Dragonborn could be.

* * *

The world is white— covered in glittering snow that stings her eyes. Clouds cover the sun, only a few rays escaping the barricade, it’s warmth not strong enough to reach her. The only bit of warmth comes from every exhale, quickly erased. The trees are bare, the river frozen through, and the only sound is the crunching of the snow with each step she takes. Mountains can be seen in the distance— a sight she used to marvel at— but now she’s been up one of those mountains, and she knows what they’re really like. 

Krosa can’t believe she’s here again.

 _Fate is funny that way, I guess._ She’s been learning a lot about that. The Greybeards spoke of Fate as if it was a god they worshipped. Delphine would speak of it with dread. The inevitable is bound to happen, but where the Greybeards would stand by to let it pass, Delphine would try to fight it— wanting to forge her own path. Krosa doesn’t know which way is best, but it’s not like Fate really cares about what she thinks anyway. If it did, she wouldn’t be here.

Riften is a place she never wanted to return to again. She can see it looming in the distance, a dark spot against the light. The first time she was here, she was humiliated, and the second time she was betrayed. The third time is bound to be worse if her luck is anything to go by. But it has to be done. Fate wouldn’t have it any other way. _I’ll have to see him again._

* * *

_“So, what would you like to drink, lass?” he asks once they enter the tavern._

_“What are my options?” Krosa asks, having never drunk alcohol before. She was always too busy to try, and never saw a point in the expense. Everything in Cyrodiil was expensive, and despite men offering to buy her a drink before, she never wanted to around them. Brynjolf looks at her curiously a moment before answering her question._

_“Well, I’m obligated to tell you to try Blackbriar Mead.”_

_“Obligated?” she asks as he pulls out a chair for her to sit in._

_“They’re business partners of mine,” he says, taking a seat next to her, their knees brushing._

_“Is it any good?”_

_“That depends on your definition of good.” His smirk has roguish charm written all over it, and Krosa wonders how many women he’s seduced with it. “For you, lass, I would suggest the Spiced Wine. It’s not the strongest of drinks, but the cinnamon gives it a pleasant, fiery taste. A perfect match for you, I believe. There is also, of course, the Mountain Berry Brew which is popular with the lasses, or the Nordic Mead, strong and hard to swallow… Everything else is something you’ve most likely seen before, or not worth mentioning.”_

_Krosa knows what he’s doing and nearly rolls her eyes. He must practice stuff like this all the time. Flirting was never her strong suit, but she has a sneaking suspicion that he wouldn’t even notice the difference. Krosa shrugs, pushing her knee slightly into his._

_“Spiced Wine sounds good to me.”_

* * *

_Krosa doesn’t want to believe it. She studies his face, looking for a sign that he’s telling the truth. Shouts can be heard, and Krosa knows the Alik’r are closing in. He hesitates, and Krosa has her answer. She lunges at him, pinning him against the wall, her sword against his throat._

_“You have ten seconds to tell me where the nearest thieves’ exit is. If you don’t, I swear I’ll kill you right here,” she states, dreading what would happen if he challenges her to go through with it. That would be another sign that he may be telling the truth. Those who are telling the truth, in her experience, tend to do so. He doesn’t do it. He caves, and again she’s disappointed. She really has been betrayed._

* * *

Their previous interactions swirl in her mind, leaving her a nervous wreck. When Delphine first told her she would have to come here, it was just a distant worry— an annoyance— but now it’s becoming a reality. She’s here, right now, about to do it. Already she can hear the sounds of the city. The big, over-crowded, grimy, traitor-filled city. 

Krosa’s had nightmares about this place— reality mixed with fiction. She hoped the nightmares would go away by now— surely that damned Daedric prince has grown tired of tormenting her. Krosa knows she’s tired of being tortured, but there’s nothing she can do about it. There’s nothing she can do about anything, apparently, except for dragon-killing.

Krosa arrives at the gate and hesitates.

_You can’t even face one man yet you expect to face Alduin? Ha! He’ll tear you to pieces!_

Krosa doesn’t even know which dragon it is. They’re all starting to sound the same. _And it’s only going to get worse._ The Greybeards told her they should go away once she defeats Alduin, that they are connected to Alduin’s life force since he resurrected them. If she died, their souls would be returned to him again and all her efforts would be pointless. That was another thing they made sure she knew— that her victory is not absolute. She will face Alduin, but she may lose.

Krosa grinds her teeth.

“Are you going to stand there all day?” a guard asks, startling her. She doesn’t have all day. Delphine was insistent about finding Esbern quickly. And, while Krosa and Delphine tend to disagree on a lot of things, she can’t help but agree that the quicker this is over with, the better. _This Esbern guy better be alive._

“No. Sorry, I’m… lost in thought.” 

“Don’t care. Just get in so I can close the gate.”

Krosa enters the city.

* * *

Brynjolf lays there staring at the stone ceiling, feeling more relaxed than ever. _I don’t know why I ever stopped. I was just too distracted I guess._ He forgot how good it felt. The bed dips as Sapphire rolls to get out of the bed and redress. Brynjolf follows suit.

“I can’t remember the last time we used a bed,” Sapphire says when she’s finished.

“It’s not my fault you’re impatient.” Sapphire only scoffs in reply. Brynjolf pulls on his shirt, turning to look at her. "Thank you, Sapphire. I needed that."

She smirks, walking over to him, caressing his face. "I didn't do it for you. You're not the only one stressed.” She pats his cheek. “Don't take it too hard."

"Should I be flattered that you bestowed upon me the honor of satisfying your sexual desires?" Brynjolf retorts sarcastically, knowing full well she won’t be satisfied for long. He wouldn’t be surprised if she’s been hopping from one person to the next— and isn’t even done for today, as sex-starved as she is. Though, he’s certainly in no position to judge. 

"You were adequate at best.”

Brynjolf barks out a laugh. "’Adequate?’”

She smirks again but backs away. "If it makes you feel any better, the rest of the options here are less than adequate.”

"I don't believe you, lass,” he says, invading her space. Maybe he’ll have to prove his competence to her again.

"You should.”

"Oh really? Is that why you keep coming back for more?”

"I had a need. You were available, as always." Brynjolf resents that, true or not.

"Well,” he says, taking a step back, “I hope I at least made it semi-enjoyable for you. You can see yourself out."

"Till next time." 

"If there is a next time."

"There will be," she calls out from the hall, having left the door open.

Brynjolf sighs, about to close it and get back to work. _Screw it,_ he thinks, walking out and locking the door behind. He’s tired of being cooped up in here.

It’s colder outside than it is in the Cistern, but it doesn’t bother him at the moment. Brynjolf walks around the city, not having a destination in mind. He finds himself in the marketplace and sees that Rune is currently manning the stall. Brynjolf tells him to take a break, the day’s almost over anyway, and Brynjolf needs to be doing something other than sitting at a desk.

Showing his face on the streets isn't the smartest thing to do right now, but there's nothing the guards can do to him until he does something wrong. Maven's made sure of that. Maven's also the only reason why they still have a market stall in the first place. After the guards' attempted raid, they were able to work something out. While both sides weren't entirely happy with it, it is what it is. Business isn’t bustling; he’s only able to sell a few potions here or there. Being in the fresh air is nice, but he’s not enjoying it as much as he thought he would.

Someone comes up behind him, and he sighs, ready for another transaction. He puts down the crate, wondering if he should tell them he was in the middle of closing up, but the Guild needs every last septim. With that thought, he turns around opening his mouth to say something; the words escape him, swept away by the person before him. Krosa. _Krosa._ She looks at him with a steely gaze, guarded and ready for anything. But in her eyes lies a glint of hesitation and something that twists in his throat, something he can’t name. She breaks the silence.

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave a kudos or review! I like knowing what people think!


	2. The City of Traitors and Thieves

“I need information,” she says, crossing her arms and looking at a point behind him. Brynjolf feels his heart twist in his chest at the sound of her voice. He is anything but prepared for this.

“Lass—”

“I’m looking for someone. Heard you’re the person to talk to,” Krosa continues, keeping her voice even, but Brynjolf can hear the apprehension tugging at it. 

“Krosa, can we talk about—” he starts, but she doesn’t give him time to finish.

“No,” she says with a voice like steel. “I don’t want to hear what a lying bastard like you has to say.” 

“I am _not—”_

“You sold me out!” she shouts, hands flying onto the counter, golden eyes smoldering.

Brynjolf’s hands curl into fists, doing his best to hold down his rising temper. He closes his eyes, taking a deep breath. He only speaks when he’s able to unclench his fists. Hoping that logic and reason can win against her. _She trusted me once_ , he reminds himself, _that has to count for something._

“No, lass, I didn’t.”

She scoffs. “And you expect me to believe you? Just like that?” Brynjolf takes a step out of the stall, holding her accusatory gaze. She stiffens, taking a step backwards, one hand moving to rest on her sword. He stays where he is.

“I helped you get away, didn’t I?”

“Only after I threatened to kill you.”

“Well, if you really think I did, lass, why are you coming to me for help?” She looks lost for a moment, and he bores his eyes into hers, hoping she can see the truth in them. She looks away, grinding her teeth.

“I had no other choice.”

“And who are you looking for?” he asks, resisting the urge to take another step forward.

“A man named Esbern. Word is he’s hiding in a place called the Ratways.” 

“And you need me for that? I’m sure you could have found the Ratways yourself, it’s not like it’s a well-kept secret.”

“I don’t have time to try.”

Brynjolf doesn’t buy that for a second. If she really didn’t want to have this conversation, she would have found another way. The fact that she’s here at all tells him she _wanted_ to see him, whether she knows it or not, and that means there’s still a chance to convince her of his innocence— that maybe she wants to give him that chance. He steps forward again, tempted to place his hand on hers. He crosses his arms instead. 

“But you have the time to try and convince the person you think betrayed you to help you?” She pauses at that, and he can see her questioning herself, doubt easing its way in.

“You said you run things like a business,” she says, her hand clenching into a fist. “This is business, Brynjolf, nothing personal.”

“On the contrary, lass, I take being called a lying bastard _very_ personally.”

“That’s your problem, not mine.” He gives her a look that she ignores. “Just tell me what I need to know,” she harrumphs, crossing her arms

Brynjolf backs off, knowing he’s reaching her limit. “You’ll find the Ratway under the city,” he explains, returning to his place behind the stall and tidying up. “Use the stairs just off the marketplace by the meadery. You’ll find the door to the vaults in a place called the Ragged Flagon. You can’t miss it. And if anyone gives you trouble, just tell them I sent you… When you get to the Ratways, follow the tunnels marked with two horizontal dashes. You’ll find him eventually.” He expects her to leave so he turns to pick up the crate.

“How much?” she asks after a few seconds, nearly making him drop the crate. He turns around to look at her.

“For what?”

“For the information. How much do you want?” Brynjolf sets the crate onto the counter, studying her. He could ask her to hear him out as a payment, but knows better than to do that. She’ll grudgingly listen to him, still set in her opinion. Nothing good would come of it.

“How much is it worth to you?” he asks instead, and she hesitates for a moment.

“You can sell this for a good price,” Krosa says, throwing an orcish dagger onto the counter. “It’s barely been used.”

She leaves before he has time to do anything, and he watches her go, frowning. He picks up the dagger, running his finger down the blade before sheathing it in his belt. He knew that she would be difficult, but he wasn’t prepared for how hard it would hit him.

* * *

Krosa hates the effect he has on her. Even now, as she’s walking away she can feel it, the remnants of whatever camaraderie they had before now twisting in her stomach, stabbing into her gut. The sting of his betrayal still haunts her, but apparently so does whatever she felt for him before. She’s not sure what it was, but it had to have been _something_ . Despite herself, part of her still wishes things could be right between them again. But that's impossible, not after what he did. _If he even did it_ , a traitorous voice in her says, and she shoves the thought away violently.

The Ratways are as pleasant as they sound, but it’s littered with more than just rats. Several people are living in the tunnels, and many of them aren’t entirely welcoming. By the time she makes it to the Ragged Flagon, though, there are far less inhabitants than there were before. _At least the rats will eat well tonight._ The thought doesn’t settle well in her stomach, or maybe that’s the rancid stench of the place.

Why anyone would want to live down here is lost on her, and she is more surprised than she’d care to admit when she finds the Flagon filled sparsely with people chatting and eating. _Who would come to a tavern all the way down here?_ she wonders, watching them for a moment. The smell isn’t as bad down here, but the dusty musk is hardly any better. 

Krosa makes her way to the tavern, and people start noticing her presence, watching as she walks by. She can hear some of them whispering about her, wondering who she is and what she’s doing down here. She spots the metal door just to the side of the counter and starts for it

“Excuse me, Miss, but may I ask what you’re doing here?” the man behind the counter calls out to her as she approaches.

“No.”

“Do you want anything to—”

“No. I’m only passing through,” Krosa says, having barely taken another step before he’s in her way. She glares at him, but he only says

“Look, I can’t just let anyone—”

“Brynjolf sent me,” she says as she pushes past him. “So leave me alone.”

Krosa doesn’t wait for him to reply, and he does nothing further to stop her, though she does hear someone at one of the tables call her a bitch under their breath, and another who snickers. She hopes there’s another way out of the vaults, so she won’t have to come back this way. And to think this may have been where she would have ended up if she had accepted Brynjolf’s offer. The people down here do look like criminals of some sort; she could have been one of those people at the tables. _What would it have been like?_ She pushes that thought aside and goes through the door.

There aren’t many people in the vaults, but it’s darker than the night sky. Krosa summons a ball of light in her hand to illuminate the passageways. The light bounces off the wet stone, revealing cobwebs above her head and rat and skeever corpses at her feet. 

It’s eerily quiet at first, quiet as the deepest reaches of any cave she’s been to. It’s unsettling. When the first crossroads comes, she looks for the mark Brynjolf told her about, and keeps following them, ignoring the sounds of skittering rats and the occasional wail of someone in its depths. Eventually she finds herself in a large room with stairs leading up to an inconspicuous metal door.

_This has to be it._ Krosa makes her way up the steps, hesitating when she gets to the top. _Do I knock?_ She does, quietly at first, then again a little louder.

“Esbern? Are you in there?” There’s several moments of nothing, and Krosa moves to open the door only to find it locked. _Of course it is, what I was thinking?_

“There’s no one named Esbern here,” a man calls from inside. Krosa rolls her eyes. Delphine said he’d be difficult.

“Delphine sent me.”

“Oh,” she hears him sneer, “how reassuring! Most likely you’re with the Thalmor and this is just a trick to get me to open the door!”

Krosa nearly argues, but remembers what Delphine told her. Or at least, she hopes she remembers. Delphine didn’t give her any time to process before sending her away. 

“She said something about the thirtieth— or maybe the thirty first… some time near the end of Frostfall. You’re supposed to know what that means.” _Way to ruin it,_ she thinks to herself, already planning on how to break through the door.

“Well, if you were a Thalmor agent, you’re a terrible one,” Esbern says, and Krosa can hear the sounds of him unlocking the _many_ locks he has on the door. Finally, it opens and Krosa gets a good look at the tattered-looking old man. “So Delphine’s still alive then?” he says, with a hint of mirth in his voice. “You’d better come in to tell me what she wants _and_ how you found me.”

Krosa enters, and he shuts the door behind her, working on relocking it as soon as she’s inside.

“Delphine only told me you made a mistake— and that I needed to find you before the Thalmor caught wind of it,” Krosa says, and he stops what he’s doing to look at her curiously. 

“A mistake? What could she—” he starts, face falling. “Oh. I know what she means. Damn thief. The Thalmor must have gotten him. I haven’t seen him in months. I knew I shouldn’t have—” he drifts off, forgetting the rest of the locks as he stands.

“Who?”

“I’m near the end of my life, but I couldn’t let myself die with all that I knew.”

“So he was your… student? Do you think he can be saved?”

“I doubt it,” he says solemnly, before shaking his head. “But enough with that, what did Delphine want with me?”

“Dragons are coming back to life, she wants you—”

“Dragons!?” he exclaims, turning towards her. “Then this is it. I told her— I told everyone this would happen! No one would believe me! All I could do was watch our doom approach. And now it’s here. By the gods, it’s here,” he breathes, falling into his desk chair, head in his hands. “The end is upon us.”

“It’s not the end.” 

“Haven’t you figured it out yet?” he says, getting to his feet again. “What more needs to happen before you all wake up and see what’s going on? Alduin has returned, just like the prophecy said—”

“I know about Alduin and the prophecy.”

“Oh, do you?” he sneers, “Delphine never believed in it, so who told you?”

“She believes in it now… sort of.” 

“She couldn’t see the truth if it hit her in her face,” he says, and Krosa can see where he’s coming from. Delphine isn’t the easiest person to talk to, always so set in her opinions, barely giving any consideration to what Krosa says. “It doesn’t matter who knows it now,” he continues after a moment of silence. “It’s all hopeless—”

Krosa hears raised voices come from beyond the door. “Did you hear that?” she asks.

“Hear what?” Esbern goes to the door, leaning an ear against it, and his face goes white. “They’ve found me,” he says hopelessly before turning on her,“You led them right to me!”

“We can still escape,” Krosa says quickly, hands raised and taking a step back as he comes closer. She hopes he doesn’t try to attack her. That would make things more difficult than they already are.

“ _Escape?_ There is no escape!” he cries, passing her and pulling a vial out of one of his drawers with tears in his eyes.

“What is that? What are you doing?”

“The only thing I can do. There is only death, one way or another, and I will _not_ be imprisoned by the Thalmor. I will not live to see Alduin destroy the world. I am sorry you came here for nothing.” It doesn’t take long for her to figure out what he plans to do, and Krosa doesn’t give him the chance to even open the vial. She takes it and throws it against the wall, the glass shattering on impact.

“Wrong choice,” she says with a glare, “try again.”

“You—” Something crashes into the door, and Esbern pales, about to turn back towards the desk. Krosa grabs him by the collar, pinning him against the wall before he tries anything else.

“I’ll knock you out and drag you if I have to,” she all but snarls, running out of patience. “I have no intention of letting them take me either.”

“Hmph. Delphine sure knows how to pick ‘em,” he dryly states. “But can’t you see this is all pointless? Even if we escape, without a Dragonborn, Alduin cannot be defeated, and there hasn’t been one of them for—”

“I’m Dragonborn.” His eyes go wide at that.

“Wh— _what_ ? You are? How? _Why_ didn’t you tell me sooner?”

“I’ll explain later. Can you fight?”

“I wasn’t a Blade by chance, just let me get ready.”

Krosa nods, letting him go and taking a breath as he dons his armor. Krosa has no idea if they really can do this; she has no idea how many of the Thalmor are out there. She’s only faced them once before, but then she was able to avoid confrontation in large groups. 

_But you’re more powerful now. With us, you could rip them to shreds with a single breath._

_Why do you care?_ Krosa asks before she can stop herself. Her heart skips a beat at the thought of what she did. She never responded before, and part of her hopes they won’t answer— that they’re not able to answer. 

_I’m not like the others,_ the voice says, and Krosa realizes which dragon it is, and that she’s never heard it talk to her before this. It’s the one from Falkreath— the one that killed Sinding. _I want you to succeed,_ it says, but Krosa won’t have it.

_I don’t believe you._ There’s another crash at the door, and Krosa’s forced to drop the subject, her nerves tingling as she turns to Esbern.

“Will that door hold?” Krosa asks, trying to shake off the effects of the conversation.

“Not for long,” he says, standing by her once he finished. “How do you plan on getting through them?”

Krosa has only one idea, and her heart races at the thought. She can feel the dragons’ souls inside her stirring as she focuses all thought on what she’s about to do. 

_“Fus!”_

The dragon was right about one thing, their power is explosively effective. As soon as the words leave her lips, the wall before them is torn apart and the Thalmor are thrown back, Krosa can't help but take a moment to stand in awe. She’s never really used it before, not like this.

_It feels good, doesn’t it? All that power at your command._ Krosa says nothing to that, trying to erase it from her mind. She shakes herself from her moment of revelry, Esbern only a few moments behind her as she throws herself down the stairs, heart thundering in her chest. She can’t help but admit the truth to herself: the dragon was right. That felt amazing.

* * *

“I’m sure that feels as good as it looks,” Nazir states disapprovingly, smirking at the man tugging at his chains. Blood runs down his wrist, the bright red flowing over the dried blood of the last time Nazir gave him a visit. 

The man spits at him.

“If you give me what I want, you won’t need to struggle so much to get out of those chains.” The man only glares, and Nazir tries to hide a smirk. “I’ll admit, torturing you was more fun at first, but I’m starting to lose my taste for it.” The man eyes him suspiciously as Nazir turns to the door, waving in Gabriella and Babette. “Unfortunately for you, there are others who’ve been waiting for a turn. You remember Gabriella?” 

“I’ve missed you,” Gabriella states, smiling flirtatiously at the man, dark promises in her eyes.

“And this is Babette, a cute little thing, isn’t she?”

“Don’t worry, Nazir, we’ll get him to talk,” Babette says, licking her lips. 

“Not before we have our fun first, of course.” Gabriella starts emptying her sack of special ingredients and pre-made poisons onto the table. She’d been saving them for an occasion such as this.

“My thanks. And by all means, do what you will,” Nazir says with a bow, before making his exit. He knows they’ll succeed, torture isn’t even necessary. Babette could easily take control of him, but he did promise them their fun. A blood-curdling scream reaches his ears, and Nazir has to admit that he’s impressed. Even he was not able to coax such a reaction out of the man. The sound is music to his ears.

* * *

“Ah, Brynjolf! There you are!” Vekel exclaims as soon as Brynjolf enters the Flagon. Brynjolf makes his way over to the counter, sitting heavily onto one of the stools. Vekel hands him a tankard. “I believe a friend of yours came down here.” 

“That would be Krosa,” Brynjolf says, watching Vekel fill the tankard.

“Wait–” The pouring stops– “Krosa? _The_ Krosa? She… She wasn’t very pleasant.”

“Yeah, she’s not in a good mood.”

“Neither are you by the looks of it,” Vekel remarks, setting down the pitcher and leaning onto the counter. ”What’s going on? Why is she here?”

“I don’t know, she didn’t tell me.” Brynjolf takes a drink, savoring the burn. 

“Are you going to go after her?”

“Why? So she can yell at me some more?”

Vekel smirks. “Did you have a lover’s quarrel?” 

“I’m in no mood for your jokes, Vekel,” Brynjolf says with a sigh, eyeing the liquid one last time before pushing the tankard away from him. Getting drunk is not a smart idea at the moment, despite how badly it’s calling to him. Not only will Vekel take full advantage of it, but if he runs into Krosa again, he wants to be at his top game.

_Krosa._ He still has a hard time believing that she’s actually here. It hasn’t even been that long… it just seemed so impossible, especially with everything he knew about her. _Why did she come back?_ he wonders. It would have to be something important or inevitable. While he’d like to believe that his original analysis is right, it never would have happened without some form of prompting.

A thunderous boom comes from the Vaults, vibrating through the tavern, rattling anything not nailed into place. Curses and shouts of alarm sound, and Brynjolf feels his stomach drop. _Aiden’s in there._ He sent the lad after Krosa, hoping that he could get some information.

“Looks like your _flower_ is in trouble.”

“No kidding,” Brynjolf says, not really listening, already lost in his options.

“What are you going to do?” Vekel asks with a smug smile on his face.

“I don’t know. She can handle herself well enough, but—” Sounds of battle escape through the sealed door, and Brynjolf can only hope that Aiden either got away or Krosa’s somehow looking out for the lad. 

“Brynjolf!" Aiden calls, rushing into the Flagon and crashing into him. Relief swirls through Brynjolf, glad the lad had enough sense not to get involved. “I ran as fast as I could,” he says, sliding to the floor.

“What happened, lad?” Brynjolf asks, crouching to his level. Vex and Delvin stand nearby, with others behind them, listening to every word. He'll have to be careful with what he says,

“It’s Krosa!” Aiden says breathlessly, trying to catch his breath.

“Quickly, Aiden.”

“A group of Thalmor found their way into the Ratways. She’s fighting them right now!”

“ _What?_ ” The _Thalmor?_ Aiden doesn’t give him time to ponder, he looks helplessly to Brynjolf, grasping onto his arms.

"Oh man, Brynjolf, we’ve gotta help her! She can’t take ‘em all!” 

“How many of them were there?”

“At least a dozen.” Brynjolf curses, getting up and pacing. _How did they even— No. That doesn’t matter right now._ There’s only one option, and Brynjolf’s going to need help. Those options are even less ideal, especially now with everyone either too drunk or holding a grudge against him. He turns to Vex.

She shakes her head. “Oh no. Like _hell_ I’m going in there! If your friend was stupid enough to—”

“Please, Vex.” _You’re the only one I can trust,_ he thinks, hoping she understands what he can’t say.

“Fine… But you’ll owe me for this.” Brynjolf can live with that.

“Do you have your daggers on you?”

She scoffs. “What kind of question is that?” 

They make their way quickly and quietly, the tell-tale sounds of a magic battle growing less intense. A clap of lighting and a flash of purple light races down the tunnels, followed by a scream. The sound of blades clashing grows deafening the closer they get to the scene, and soon they come upon it. Sticking close to the wall, they survey the battle. Half of a wall is missing, blasted apart. Thalmor bodies litter the ground, along with that of an older man in strange-looking armor. Only a few are still breathing, too injured or drained to fight.

“What are we going to do?”

“Wait for an opening. Their magic should be drained soon enough,” Brynjolf says, watching their magical armor and wards flickering.

“What if we need to engage before then?”

“Be fast, focus on evasion. Distract them long enough so Krosa can finish them off unless there's an opening for a solid hit," he says, watching Krosa fight. She seems stronger than before _,_ faster and more ferocious. "We don’t want to get in her way.”

Four against one, yet evenly matched. Krosa moves too quickly and savagely for them to pin her down properly, but they’re still pushing their advantage relentlessly. Brynjolf can see the signs of her struggling, tiring out and not as efficient as he’s seen her in the past. She moves with a lethal grace, around and under, between and through. She doesn’t stop moving, doesn’t give them the chance to overpower her.

“You know… I’m actually kind of impressed,” Vex states, watching the battle intently. “She’s a force to be reckoned with.” Brynjolf swells with pride hearing that, despite knowing that he has no right to. “And kind of a bitch, but I can respect that.”

“She is _not—_ ” A new shadow dances along the wall, and Brynjolf barely has time to register what’s happening before there’s a cry as a Thalmor goes down, stabbed in the back by Aiden. 

Krosa whirls around at the sound, leaving an opening for one of the Thalmor to cut into her side. She cries out, sword dropping out of her hands and clattering to the floor as her hands move to staunch the blood flow. She barely dodges the next blow, stumbling and falling to the ground in the process, two of them bearing down on her while the other turns on Aiden, taunting him as he backs the trembling boy into a corner. Brynjolf lunges from his hiding spot, Vex a step behind.

“I’ve got Aiden!” she calls, knives already soaring through the air. 

Krosa hasn’t gotten back to her feet, only able to roll out of the way or kick out with her feet and throw whatever she can at them, all traces of gracefulness gone. Brynjolf makes it just in time to save her from a blow she could not dodge, coming between them, his daggers screeching against the steel of the Thalmor’s blade. 

The elf snarls at Brynjolf, using the leverage on her blade to steer him into the wall. Brynjolf grunts with effort, already at the disadvantage.

“You shouldn't have bothered,” the Thalmor sneers, towering over him and applying more pressure, her gauntlets crackling with energy. Brynjolf’s own daggers starting to dig into his flesh, his efforts to push back useless. He kicks her in the knee, and she grunts, grip on her blade slackening. Brynjolf worms his way out, coming behind her and ramming her face-first into the wall. The elf falls to her knees, but before Brynjolf can finish her off, one of his feet is yanked out beneath him, and he crashes to the ground.

A Thalmor straddles him, hands encircling his throat. Brynjolf struggles against his hold, trying to lash out and loosen his grip. Black spots fill his vision, panic of death settling in before there’s a flash of red, and suddenly the weight is off him and air floods into his lungs, the shock of it nearly capable of knocking him out right there. He hears a grunt, and looks up to see Krosa straddling the elf, bringing a shield down on his head again and again and again.

“I think he’s dead,” he hears Vex call out from across the room.

Brynjolf turns to see her and Aiden making their way over to them, out of the corner of his eye he sees Krosa bring the shield down one more time, using its edge to sever his head, slowly moving to wipe blood from her face. The Thalmor Brynjolf slammed into the wall struggles to get up, but Vex finishes her off, Aiden giving him a kick in the stomach for good measure.

_“_ What in _Oblivion_ were you _thinking?_ ” Brynjolf thunders, voice low and hoarse from nearly being choked to death.

“I wanted to help.”

“You could have gotten yourself killed! You could have gotten us _all_ killed!”

“I’m sorry—”

“Lay off, Brynjolf. Now is not the time,” Vex says, hand falling onto Aiden’s shoulder. The boy’s trembling, all color drained from his face, shirt torn and soaked in blood.

“Are you hurt?” he asks, getting to his feet.

“He’s fine, though I can’t say the same thing about your friend over there.” Brynjolf whirls around, seeing Krosa leaning heavily against the stairs, eyes closed, face contorted in a desperate concentration as her hands grasp her wound, flickering with a golden light.

“Krosa,” he breathes, making his way towards her, faintly hearing Vex say she'll make sure the others are dead as Aiden leaves to fetch a healer. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” she says, not sounding fine at all.

“You don’t _look_ fine.” Brynjolf retorts.

“Then stop looking.” 

“Lass, just let me help you.” Brynjolf reaches out for her, hand touching her arm before she jerks back and levels him with a glare.

“I don’t want your help,” she says, pushing off the wall to shove past him, but she collapses instead. Brynjolf catches her as gently as he can, all signs of consciousness gone.

“Well, then, it’s a good thing you’re in no shape to stop me,” he mumbles to himself, carefully lowering her to the ground. He turns her over, inspecting her side wound. _Shit,_ he thinks, quickly moving to do whatever he can to stop the bleeding. _That does_ not _look good._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave a kudos or review! I like knowing what people think!


	3. No Mending What's Been Broken

Awkward is an understatement. Of all the healers Aiden could have asked for help, he had to choose the _one_ priestess Brynjolf slept with. When Brynjolf questioned him, the lad only said that she was nice and good at keeping secrets. Brynjolf can only imagine what kind of secrets the lad has to tell. He certainly hopes it’s not the Guild’s secrets.

“Is she a friend of yours?” Ysolt asks, inserting the needle again, and Brynjolf can’t help but take note of the fact she’s far gentler than Krosa. And Krosa wasn’t even the one stabbing him multiple times with a needle.

“It’s… complicated.” The silence that follows is unbearable. “How do you know Aiden?” he asks after only a few moments. 

“He likes to run errands for us, and there’s a priest in the temple who loves to tell stories,” she says with a soft smile, finishing the last stitch and cutting the thread. “He speaks highly of you.”

Brynjolf doesn’t say anything to that. He hasn’t had much time for the poor lad, and the Guild isn't the friendliest place at the moment, so Aiden’s probably been seeking attention wherever he could get it. _I’ll have to remedy that._

“When can I take out the stitches?” 

“You should come back in a few days and I will see what I can do. I’m sorry I couldn’t use any magic.”

“Don’t be. She needed it more than I did,” he says, recalling Ysolt’s face when she first saw Krosa’s wound. Brynjolf wasn’t sure if— 

“There’s no need to worry,” Ysolt says softly, hand falling to his chest, gray eyes full of understanding.

“I’m not worrying,” Brynjolf says, trying not to read too much into it. He could tell from their first meeting that she was freer with touches than most.

“If you say so.” 

“I do.”

“Alright.”

Brynjolf sighs, wishing that Krosa was awake so they could talk— though he has no idea what she’ll be like. While he doesn’t have high hopes she will be any different than before, he also can’t get the image out of his head of her savagely attacking the Thalmor who was strangling him. At the very least, it means she doesn’t want him dead, and there’s a bare glimmer of hope there may be more to it.

“What about Esbern?” he asks, wondering what Krosa wanted with him in the first place, and why the Thalmor were involved. He would have forgotten about the man had it not been for Vex.

“I don’t have high hopes for him,” Ysolt says, hand curling into a fist. “Maramal is looking at him now. I used most of what I have on your friend. And the older one gets, the harder they are to heal.” 

“I’m sure you did all you could, lass,” Brynjolf says, placing his hand over hers.

“I know I did,” she says, removing her hand to start packing. “It doesn’t make it any easier.”

It hits him then, a brief glimpse into the kind of life a priest of Mara would live. Always healing others, yet still having people die regardless of their efforts. He saw them as pretentious prudes, believing themselves better than everyone; they have a firm distaste for Dibella and her followers. And while Brynjolf isn’t one for worship, if he had to choose, the choice would be obvious. Yet it hadn’t occurred to him that there was anything more to them. Maybe he was too quick to judge. _Or maybe it’s just Ysolt._

“What do you want for payment?” he asks, hoping it’s within reason.

“That depends. Are you paying me for my services or are you trying to keep this quiet?”

“Both,” he says, wondering just how much she knows about him to ask a question like that. _I'll need to have a talk with Aiden._ She studies him for a long moment, biting her bottom lip. Brynjolf tries not to let it distract him. 

“Come by when you have the time. I’m sure I can think of something you can help me with,” she says, getting up. Brynjolf smirks, watching her leave. It’s not hard to figure out what she wants. And he wouldn’t mind it, not one bit.

Brynjolf puts his shirt on, collects the rest of his things and goes searching for the room Krosa’s in. Ysolt kicked him out as soon as he brought her in, and no amount of persistence could change her mind. Ysolt also told him not to disturb her, so there’s a fair amount of sneaking involved before he finds it and slips in. 

Pale moonlight slips in through the small windows, giving Krosa’s skin the pallor of death. Her chest rises and falls in a slow rhythm, her face pale and pinched. _She can’t even relax in her sleep._ Ysolt said it wasn't likely that she'd wake up any time soon. He thought seeing her breathing would ease whatever tension he’s feeling, but it doesn’t. He’ll have to talk to her again, and he doesn’t have high hopes the conversation will be a pleasant one.

A scar peeks out from beneath the bandages on her chest, and more litter her arms, a few fresher cuts mixed in with the rest. Again, he realizes just how little he actually knows about her. There’s one more recent than the rest, pulled together by stitches. He barely restrains himself from touching it, and finds himself asking:

“What have you gotten yourself into, lass?” 

* * *

“Again.” 

_“Again_?” Raysha exclaims, groaning. “Why?”

“You were sloppy.” 

“I was _not s_ loppy!”

Xariel smirks. “And too slow.” Raysha glares. “You're going to be fighting someone who—”

“I _know_.”

He doesn’t have to keep reminding her. She’s perfectly aware of what Krosa’s capable of, the danger she is. But even still, _one_ woman against _all_ of them hardly stands a chance, skilled or unskilled. Xariel doesn’t seem to get that.

“I'm only trying to help you.”

“I _know_... Can't we just take a break?” Raysha flops onto the ground, the snow bleeding through the back of her clothes. The sun has barely made it over the horizon, casting the snow in a golden glow. She had never seen snow before coming to Skyrim and has found that it mostly hurts her eyes and numbs her toes. “We've been doing this all morning,” she states whimsically, dreaming of the day when she can return home.

“The morning's not over yet.” 

“Smartass.”

“You don't have to ask, you know,” Xariel states, moving to sit next to her, a smirk on his face. “If you want to take a break, take one. You're the one in charge here.” She wonders if his constant attempts at reminding her are for her benefit or his. “But just know: no matter how hard you train, she's still going to be better than you.”

“Then what's the point?” Raysha asks, rolling onto her stomach and drawing in the snow. Another thing Xariel never fails to mention is the likelihood of her failure. It used to scare her, but now it’s just annoying. She’s not _that_ bad at fighting. He’s said so himself.

“So you at least have a semblance of a chance and be able to last long enough to outsmart her.”

“What about the others? Won’t they make it easier?”

Xariel scoffs. “If you’re not careful, they won’t be there. Resorting to banditry may have appeased them for a time, but funds are still lacking.”

“That wasn't my fault!” Raysha bites out, getting to her knees. “I told him not to pay until after we had her and, when he did, not to give the full amount, but that _moron—_ ” Xariel shakes his head.

“That _moron_ was one _you_ hired. Your decision and his decision are now one and the same to the rest. You may have appeased them for a time, but now we’re stuck here in the worst season of the year. How long before they decide it’s not worth it?” he asks, glaring at the falling snow. Xariel’s never complained about it, but the constant scowl he wears is surely because of his hatred for snow. The men have complained about it and living in a cave certainly doesn’t help, but it’s not like there are many other options. “Not to mention those who were stationed in Falkreath. You saw the bodies of their friends just as they did. They encountered someone capable enough to not just kill them, but tear them apart! Most people would prefer their lives over money they may never see again.”

“There’s nothing I can do about it. _And_ there’s nothing they can do about it. They already agreed, to back out of it would be cowardly.” 

“Still. No one here is loyal to _you,”_ Xariel iterates, his hand falling onto Raysha’s knee. “You may have won their respect for a time, but it won't last. If they abandon you— or worse, turn on you— then you will be on your own against her.”

“Why would they turn on me?

“Money. Convenience,” Xariel says with a shrug. “You Redguards aren’t like the Nords. Honor is not enough for them; soon principle and public opinion won’t be either.”

“And what about you?” she asks, searching his eyes. “Will you abandon or betray me?”

“I will be there too. Nothing will change that.” Raysha huffs, wishing he was easier to read. While she wants to put her trust in him, he’s too secretive for her liking. 

“Why did you agree to help me? What did she do to you?” She shoves his hand off her knee and gets to her feet. ”How do I know you want to get to her as much as I do?”

“My reasons are my own, and you know better than to ask. But I assure you I need to find her, maybe even more than you do.”

That can’t be possible _._ Her brother was everything to her, and she’s willing to do anything to avenge him. _Alesan._ She closes her eyes as his image flashes before her, the sound of his laughter making her heart soar before it settles into a hollow place in her heart. They’ll never argue and he’ll never tease her about her lack of interest in finding someone to love. Alesan was always falling in love; one look was all it would take for him. He made it look so simple. Everything was simple to him. _And now he’s gone._ All that love he carried and all the brightness he brought smothered by a murderous bitch.

“How do I make her suffer?” she asks, all loathing and malice.

Xariel raises his eyebrows, and says, “Well… first, you need to _find_ her.”

“Ha-ha,” Raysha deadpans, kicking his shin.

He smirks, getting to his feet. “You also need to train… Now, are you ready to try again?” he asks, handing her a sword.

She takes it, examining it for a moment before slashing it at him. He’s quick to evade, laughing as he puts distance between them. Raysha doesn’t know why he finds fighting so exhilarating, and the sound of his laughter makes her blood boil. _I’ll win this time. And I’ll win against_ her _too._ She can feel it in her bones— justice will be hers.

* * *

Remnants of a forgotten nightmare fade away as Krosa starts to feel herself slowly wake up, and she does all she can to reverse the process. She knows what will be waiting for when she opens her eyes, and she is not ready for that yet. The nightmares can have her.

But her body is stiff and sore, making her attempts futile. Krosa groans in protest; a hand falls onto her arm, warm and irritating.

“Are you awake, lass?”

“Unfortunately,” she says, her voice a pained whisper. She opens her eyes, gazing falling to where his hand is.

“How are you feeling?” Brynjolf asks, removing his hand and settling back into the chair, arms and legs crossed. Krosa shoots him a glare. “Not good then?” 

“Where are we?”

“The temple of Mara. A priestess healed you.” 

“Where’s Esbern?”

“Recovering in the next room. He’s not doing so well.” Krosa stops with her onslaught for a moment. Delphine will be furious if Esbern dies on her. _She’ll probably try to blame me and say it was my incompetence that killed him._ And it wouldn’t be entirely untrue. Krosa could have let him run while she held them off. He wasn’t that much help anyway, and having to look out for him at first only hindered her. He may have been an experienced fighter in his youth, but his old age rendered him almost entirely useless.

“How long has it been?” Krosa asks before she dwells on the fight any longer.

“A little more than a day.” 

“And the Thalmor?”

“There haven’t been any others yet,” Brynjolf says, studying her. “Why were they—”

“It’s none of your business,” Krosa says, crossing her arms. 

“It _is_ my business when the damned Thalmor storm the place.” Brynjolf glares at her, eyes hard and angry. “Do you know how hard it was to convince my guild—”

“That’s not my problem.” 

“You do realize I saved your life, right?”

“I didn’t ask you to.” Krosa sees his eyes flare, and for a moment she thinks he will lash out— part of her hopes for him to do just that. But it disappears as he sighs, one hand pinching the bridge of his nose.

“That’s not how it works, lass… And I seem to recall you returning the favor.” Krosa doesn’t say anything to that, and a few moments pass before Brynjolf speaks up again, “Why did you help me?”

“My goal was to kill the Thalmor, not you,” Krosa says with as much venom as she can muster, not looking him in the eyes.

“If you hated me as much as you seem to think, you certainly could have let him finish me off first.” Krosa has no answer for that, and she refuses to sit idly while he is bound to go on a verbal rampage. “Oh no you don’t,” he says, pushing her back down. “You’re far too weak to try that.”

“I don’t care. Let me go.” He listens, but hovers over, ready to stop her again if necessary.

“You’d barely be able to stand,” he states smugly.

“Then I’ll crawl.” 

Brynjolf hesitates for a moment, disbelief coloring his face. “You are the most _obstinate_ person I have ever met, do you realize that?”

Krosa doesn’t even know what that word means. “If you let me go you won’t have to deal with it anymore.”

“Get up then,” he says, sitting back down, a challenge in his eyes.

“What?”

“If you can get up and make it to the door, you can leave.” Krosa hesitates. The effort she already put into the first attempt is working against her, her side itching and aching. “You don’t think you can do it, do you?” Krosa refuses to look at him. “A word of advice, lass, don’t run faster than you’re able. I’ll bring you something to eat.” 

“I’m not hungry,” she says, but the mention of food makes her stomach growl in earnest. Krosa refuses to blush.

“Your stomach seems to disagree with you,” he says, and she can hear the smirk in his voice. “Stay here.”

There’s not much Krosa can do otherwise, so she waits, closing her eyes against the light of the sun peeking through the window. She doesn’t know how she’s going to get through this. It’s bad enough that her whole reason for being here may wind up dead and useless, but now she has to deal with Brynjolf and his persistent helpfulness. She doesn’t doubt that he’s trying to win her over again, nor that he will be overly charming about it. _It’s a ploy,_ Krosa reminds herself, _that’s all it is._

It doesn’t take him long, and he returns with a bowl of soup in one hand and a cup of water in his other. It’s all she can do to keep her mouth from watering at the smell. Recently, she’s been eating nothing but dried rations. Delphine said it was in their interest to keep away from inns and taverns as much as possible. Krosa could see the logic in it then, but now she wonders if it’s really worth it. Food has always been something Krosa has thoroughly enjoyed. 

“Can you sit up or do you need help?” he asks, handing her the bowl and placing the cup beside the bed.

“I’m not completely helpless,” Krosa bites out, sitting up as carefully as she can and shoving a few spoonfuls of the soup in her mouth before ditching the spoon and bringing the bowl to her lips.

“I never said you were,” he says lightly, a trace of humor in his voice. Krosa ignores him. When she finishes, she goes for the water next, but Brynjolf moves it just out of her reach. “I’ll let you have it only after you answer one of my questions.” Krosa glares. “What? I answered all of yours.”

“That’s not the same.”

“You don’t even know what I’m going to ask.” Krosa knows exactly what he’s going to ask, and Brynjolf knows it too. “Why are you so determined to believe I betrayed you?”

“Why are you so determined to make me believe you didn’t?” 

_“Because I didn’t!”_

“So, what? You’re saying I somehow misinterpreted _everything_?” Krosa retorts, crossing her arms defiantly.

“Yes!” Brynjolf exclaims, nearly jumping out of his chair. “If I did sell you out, do you think I’d care what you thought of me just to try to hand you over again?” Krosa stiffens and watches as understanding dawns on his face. “Is that what you think I’m trying to do? Win you over so I can do it all over again?”

“Possibly.” Though, she can also see it being nothing other than his ego— not being able to bear the thought of someone hating him or seeing him for what he is— but that point doesn’t serve her argument well enough, so she leaves it unsaid. 

“And that’s enough for you? The possibility? The _slight_ chance that I may not be worthy of your trust?” Krosa doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even let herself think: she will not allow him to have any sway on her. “Well. I guess that’s it then,” he states, and Krosa ignores the tinge of dejection staining his voice.

“Yeah… I guess it is,” she says, doing her best not to stain her words with emotion, ignoring the sinking feeling in her gut.

“Another word of advice for you, lass,” Brynjolf says as he gets up, “Sometimes things are worth the risk. Keep that in mind the next time some poor sod tries to befriend you.” He pushes the glass within her reach before leaving without another word.

* * *

_“Do you need help with that?”_

_“I’ll manage.” Krosa doesn’t even know why he bothered asking. Ever since he arrived, he’s been pestering her, watching from a distance. She hefts the large sack of grain over her shoulder and marches past him._

_He whistles, keeping stride with her. “I’m impressed a little lady like you can manage such a feat. How do you do it?”_

_“Determination.”_

_“Ah, yes. A little determination goes a long way.” He comes in in front of her, forcing her to stop. He holds a hand out to her, holding a yellow flower. The same one she’s seen him twirling in his fingers the whole day with a stupid smile on his face._

_“What’s this?”_

_“A flower,” he says, all charm and smile. ”For you.”_

_“Keep it. I have no use for flowers.” Not to mention the sack of grain isn’t getting any lighter and the sun is only going to get higher._

_He shrugs. “You can still like them regardless,” he states, taking a step towards her and placing it behind her ear. “It looks good on you.”_

_“I don’t want it.” She rips it off and throws it at him._

_“I won’t tell anyone,” he says in all seriousness, bending down to pick it back up, watching as a petal falls from it in the process._

_“You won’t have to,” Krosa says, pushing past him to start walking again. There’s no hiding things from the master of the house. Someone’s always willing to spill another’s secrets to get into his good graces. She hopes he will take the hint, but he persists._

_“Surely they won’t have a problem with you having a flower.” Confusion graces his features, and it’s all Krosa can do not to roll her eyes. Clearly he doesn’t know how things work here._

_“They’d say I stole their property.”_

_“Even if I told them I gave it to you?”_

_Krosa shakes her head adamantly, dropping the sack onto the cart with the others. “That will only make the punishment worse. You’re not supposed to be talking to me, so please leave.” She still has a lot of work to do. He listens this time and Krosa doesn’t see him for the rest of the day. When night falls, she makes her way back to the servant’s quarters, muscles sporting a familiar ache. She flops onto her bed with a heavy sigh, ready for sleep to take her._

_But something isn’t right. Her pillow smells strangely fragrant, and she sits up, looking under the pillow only to see a crumpled yellow flower and a note. Fury comes to her first, then relief that no one else found it yet. She picks up the note, using the light of the moon to read it._

_‘What can I say? I’m determined.’_

_-Alesan_

Idiot, _Krosa thinks, shoving it into her pocket quickly. She moves to throw the flower out the window, but it does smell nice. She brings it closer to her nose instead, inhaling the pleasant scent._ Maybe it’s worth it. _She pulls out her journal from its hiding place and places the flower and note inside._

* * *

Krosa refuses to be played again, to be so vulnerable and easy to manipulate. Just the brief memory is powerful enough to set her skin crawling and heart pounding. She gulps down the water when she feels a tug in her throat and nearly decides to throw it at the wall. Breaking things always was so satisfying. Before she can make up her mind, a woman enters, wearing the orange and yellow robes of a priestess.

“Oh! You’re awake?”

“Clearly,” Krosa says, slamming the cup onto the table.

“I didn’t expect it for another day at least.”

“Then why are you here?”

“To check on you,” the woman states, making her way across the room, eyes falling on the empty bowl. “Who gave you this?”

“Brynjolf.” Just saying his name itches her insides. The priestess sighs.

“I told him not to bother you, but I should have expected it. He wouldn’t stop worrying.”

“I don’t want to talk about him.”

“Sorry… Can I check your wound?” she asks, and Krosa nods. The woman unwraps the bandages, poking and prodding at the wound. “How— Do you know healing magic?”

“Yes, but I’m not the greatest at it.”

“So you haven’t tried healing yourself?”

“No.”

“Hmm.” The woman wraps Krosa back up with a new bandage, using far less than she did before. “Your friend passed away last night,” she says quietly once she finishes.

 _Of course he did,_ Krosa muses, Nothing _ever goes right for me._

“He woke up once before he—”

“What did he say? Did he say anything?”

The woman pulls out a sheet of paper and hands it to her. “He wanted me to give you this. Made me promise not to read it.” The note is barely legible, full of ink blots and scribbled writing. Krosa knows better than to ask the priestess for any help, and struggles through it.

_‘Tell Delphine I’m sorry, and I hope you know my death isn’t your fault. As you know, I would have died anyway. Go to Jarl Balgruuf. He has what you will need. And if by some miracle Etienne is still alive, I hope you find him. He can also help you. There are things I told him that won’t be in those texts. I’m afraid I can’t be of any more help._

_It’s funny. I was so ready to accept death before. My whole life was spent running and hiding, knowing that one day I will die. There were some days where I’d wait for it to take me, some days where I nearly took care of it myself. And now here I am, hoping that death does not claim me, but I’ve never been good at hoping. So, for whatever it’s worth, I hope you find the help you need. You’re going to need it if there’s any chance you will defeat him._

_P.S. Don’t let Delphine be too hard on you. As I said before, some things are hard for her to accept. She can be difficult, but she is determined. Tell her I wish we could have mended what happened between us, and I forgive her wholeheartedly and I hope she does the same._

_-Esbern_

Krosa doesn’t know why the note hits her in the gut, or why tears sting her eyes. She had only just met him. The priestess clears her throat, and Krosa looks to her, welcoming the distraction.

“I’ll leave you alone now. At this rate you should be good to go by tomorrow if you wish— but only if you’re careful not to aggravate the wound. I used most of what I had on the inside damage… And if Brynjolf comes back tell him I—”

“He won’t be coming back,” Krosa states, frowning.

“Oh… Are you sure about that?”

“He has no reason to.” 

“Alright then.” She heads for the door, turning around one last time. ”Let me know if you need anything.” The door closes behind her, and Krosa’s left alone again.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave a kudos or review! I like knowing what people think!


	4. Taking Chances

Brynjolf doesn’t want to believe things are over between them. But what was there really? Maybe he’s been fooling himself this whole time. Krosa certainly thinks she was fooled. Her blatant lack of trust used to be charming at first— just another one of her quirks, but now it only grates on his nerves.

“Trouble in paradise?” 

“Shut up, Vekel.”

Brynjolf hopes that the others will be able to pick up on his lack of a good mood. He has no interest in talking to anybody at the moment. Slamming the door to his room, he throws himself into his desk chair and puts his head in his hands with a deep, elongated sigh. _What am I going to do now?_ he wonders, leaning back into the chair to stare at the stone ceiling. Maybe he should have handled the conversation better, but it was hard not to let it upset him. He doesn’t even know why it bothers him so much. It’s not like he expected anything different.

His bed calls to him temptingly from the corner of his eye. He fell asleep in the chair earlier, only dozing off for a few hours. Exhaustion creeps on him now, and there’s an annoying kink in his neck. He sighs again, massaging his neck and looking to the mess of papers on his desk. He never did finish his report for Mercer. It’s funny how much had happened and yet he’s back here again as if it was all just his imagination. _If only that’s what it was._ He opens the top drawer of his desk, digging around for a match to light the candles with. Then he shuts the drawer quickly, eyes falling to the one below, mind turning to what lies within and what it could mean for him.

 _Not today,_ he tells himself, but he should definitely do it before she leaves and he’s sure Krosa will be doing that sooner than she should be. He should have till tomorrow at least, and that will also give him time to think of what to say, if he plans on saying anything at all. He may just have Ysolt give it to her with a note. Krosa would likely prefer that route. He doesn’t know which choice is better yet and decides he has time to think about it. Feeling a little lighter, he lights the candles, ready to work on those reports.

Somebody knocks on the door, and Brynjolf sighs.

“Come in!” he shouts, glad that he didn’t think to lock it in his rampage.

Mercer comes in, scowling as usual. “Are the reports ready?”

“Almost.”

“Vex told me everything.” _Of course she did._ Brynjolf waits for Mercer to go off on him, but he never does. “How’s your friend doing?” 

“She’ll live,” Brynjolf says, eyeing Mercer suspiciously.

“You don’t sound very happy about that.”

“I am, it’s just… things are complicated at the moment. Between us I mean,” he says, 

Mercer scoffs. “I’m sure it is,” he states, leaning against the desk. A few moments of tense silence pass, and Brynjolf can only wonder what he’s thinking, before Mercer speaks, “Don’t bother finishing the reports right now. Tonilia said she can sell the Thalmor’s gear for a good amount before the day is done, so you should be able to include that as well.”

“Truly?”

“There should be enough for both the vault and Solitude. Maven will have to wait.”

Brynjolf shakes his head. “No. We’re putting it all in the vault. We need everything we’ve got. In fact, I think you should pull from your Solitude funds. It’s an unnecessary expense.” He had felt this way for a long time but he had been trying to please Mercer by avoiding any unnecessary confrontations. Now that they’re this desperate he sees no point in delaying; Mercer can get as mad as he likes. It’ll just have to be one of those days.

“We need to have a back-up plan in place,” Mercer reiterates, using his hand to emphasize the fact.

“We _need_ to focus on the _actual_ plan more than the back-up one. We can’t just give up on this place. Not yet,” Brynjolf says. _Not after everything that happened._ He needs something to go right for him, just this once. His whole life can go to shit for all he cares if it means the Guild remains.

“You’re the only one attached to this place, you know. Everyone else will only complain due to the inconvenience.”

“I’ve lived my whole life here, you know that,” Brynjolf says, crossing his arms. Mercer would never understand why Brynjolf feels the way he does. All Mercer cares about is profit: the rest is just a way to make it. Brynjolf isn’t sure if Mercer even knows what feelings are. “And this is where Gallus wanted the Guild to be,” Brynjolf continues, hoping that will awaken something in Mercer— he was Gallus’s student too, after all.

Mercer sneers, “This was the most convenient place for Gallus. There was no other reason he chose to be here.”

“Please, Mercer.”

Mercer looks at him, considering. “We may be left with nothing.”

“We already have nothing.”

Mercer sighs. “We’ll see how much Tonilia can get us, then I’ll consider it.”

“Thank you.” It’s not what Brynjolf wanted, but it’s better than nothing. Besides, it gives him time to figure something else out.

“Is there anything else we need to address?” Mercer asks, already heading for the door.

“Not at the moment.” 

"Then I'll take my leave."

Brynjolf lets out a breath as soon as Mercer leaves, followed by a small, satisfied grin. That went far better than he expected. Now all he needs to do is decide how he plans to give Krosa her stuff back. He smirks at the thought. It isn’t the first time he’s done such a thing. There have been many jobs where someone wanted the Guild to steal back what another person stole. _But this is going to be an honest exchange_ , he tells himself, _and there’s no promise of a reward._

* * *

“We were not looking for you,” the man states, no emotion in his voice. 

“Who’s this for, then?” Nazir asks, holding up the scroll. He has tried washing the blood off, but the paint came off with it, leaving only a faded swirl of colors.

“The one who murdered the leaders of the Da’Vam clan.”

 _What?_ The information swirls in his head, testing the waters to find someplace to settle. _They’re gone. But no, that can’t be all—_

“She fought in the arena under their name,” the man continues, and Nazir almost misses it.

“She?” _No. No, it can’t be._ “What was her name?”

“I— I don’t— I can’t remember. I— I don’t even know what she looks like.”

“That’s probably my fault,” Gabriella says unapologetically. “I may have been a little overzealous in my methods.” 

Nazir sighs. “What _can_ you tell me?” he asks, and the man looks between him and Babette.

“You heard him. Tell him what you know.”

“Our leader, Raysha, has a personal vendetta against her, but Raysha’s young and inexperienced. She has someone training her, a Dunmer, he’s the real threat. I— I don’t know what else to tell you.”

“How many of you are there?”

“Twenty spread out amongst the holds, though they should be regrouping soon.”

“Anything else?”

“Spare me… please.”

Nazir raises an eyebrow and looks to Babette who shrugs. Nazir studies the man, trying to find a hint of humanity in his eyes. If there was any fear or pain in them, it’s not there anymore. 

“No… I don’t think I will,” Nazir decides, stepping away and turning to Babette again. “Kill him.”

“But I want to—”

“No,” Nazir says, hand falling onto her shoulder. “I’m not taking any chances. I can find you another toy to play with.”

“I want this one,” she pleads, but Nazir knows her too well to fall for the innocent look in her eyes.

“Babette—”

“You promised!” she shouts, stomping her foot.

“I said you could have a turn with him. Time’s up.”

“You’re not in charge,” Babette says, scowling and crossing her arms. “I don’t have to listen to you.”

“Astrid wouldn’t want you to keep him either.”

“Children, children,” Gabriella drawls, moving to stand between them, “do I have to separate you?” They both turn to glare at Gabriella, who only smirks. “I think we can all agree that Astrid can settle this. So stop bickering.” 

Babette sticks her tongue out at him, and Nazir only rolls his eyes, saying unsavory words under his breath in Yoku.

“I know what that means, you know.” 

“I don’t care,” Nazir states, leaving the room. He already knows who Astrid will side with, but that’s not what’s relentlessly pushing against his mind. After all this time, the Da’Vam clan is dead. Just like that. While that is enough of a shocker on its own, the real shock is the possibility that Krosa may yet be alive. 

* * *

_His lips were chapped and cracking, mouth dry as the desert he’s in._

_“You’re lying,” Nazir says, heart sinking._

_“She called out for you many times, but you weren’t there to—” Nazir’s fist connects with the bastard’s jaw and lunges at him, ready to pound him into the dirt, but the others leap at Nazir, holding him back by the arms._

_“Why? She had no part in any of this!” Nazir cries, struggling against their hold on him. They bring him to his knees._

_“She was someone you cared for,” the bastard states, wiping blood from his lips, “and you needed to be taught a lesson…We told you there would be consequences if you didn’t pull through.” A swift and hard kick to the gut follows the words, and Nazir doubles over, not knowing which pain was worse._

_“What are you going to do to me, then?”_

_“Nothing. For now, you get to live. You know how Vander loves his games,” the man says, before punching Nazir in the face. “But that doesn’t mean we can’t have our fun first.”_

* * *

Nazir goes to his room and starts packing, ignoring Festus’s curious gaze. He needs to see for himself. He needs to learn what he can, and there’s one place he’s sure to get the answers he needs. He needs to go back to Hammerfell.

* * *

_Krosa can’t get away. No matter what she does, it’s licking at her heels, threatening to overtake her. Echoes of words said long ago chase after her, letting her know just how cornered she truly is._

_“Don’t be afraid, little one, I’m only trying to help.”_

_“You belong to us now.”_

_“So, girl, you like killing?”_

_“Don’t bother trying to escape.”_

_The endless fighting. The bleeding, the crying. Knowing that nothing will ever change. Sand in her eyes, itching her throat, sticking to her skin._

_Through corridor after corridor she runs, her lungs constrict against her chest, rattling with every staggered breath. Her feet pound into the earth, one foot after the next in an endless rhythm of desperation._

_The tunnel seems to expand, the light getting dimmer, blocked by a shadow from something she doesn’t know. She stops dead in her tracks when the shadow takes the form of an eye, darkness swirling like tentacles. She has no idea what it is, no idea what it wants. She risks a look behind her, trying to decide which horror she’d rather face— which one would give her the best chance to survive and escape. Only there’s nothing there. A feeling of wrongness washes over her, her gut tightening painfully. She knows something is there— something has to be there, and then she sees it._

_A dark figure peeks out from behind one of the corners._

_Her heart twists as it slowly gets closer, the end of the tunnel shortening while it stays where it is. There are no eyes, no facial features, but Krosa can tell that it’s smiling. She knows the eye is still watching her. Memories or imaginings, the known or the unknown. Both are watching and waiting, still far away yet closer than they should be. She falls to her knees, covering her eyes, too scared to look either way. Not willing to make the choice, hoping they will pass over her if she simply doesn’t give in to their demands. But she can still feel them creeping up on her, closing in._

_Closer. Ever closer._

_“What are you so afraid of, that you allow yourself to be surrounded?” a voice says, swirling around, echoing off the walls. “Look at you, you can’t even stand and face your fears with dignity.” Krosa doesn’t care. She just wants to be free, wants to be safe. “How do you expect to face Alduin when you can’t even face yourself?”_

_The voice is right. Krosa knows this, but still it cuts her deep, images of all her fears flashing before her eyes. Of everything she hates about herself— all the mistakes she made. Footsteps sound against the stone, and Krosa can feel someone hovering over her, the owner of the voice._

_“Poor Savos. Poor Sinding. Poor Brynjolf… Two of them are already dead because of you, what a plague you are, a killer through and through. Maybe it’s a good thing that you have no one left to care for you, no friends to name, no family to go home to. They’d only die in the end. Well, that or betray you,” the voice cackles. “Can you really blame those who do? You make it too easy.”_

_“They wouldn’t—” Krosa starts, but clamps her mouth back just as quickly._

_Vaermina stands before her, grinning maliciously. Then she walks off, leaving Krosa alone in the encroaching darkness, the whispers and voices bouncing off the wall, and her own treacherous thoughts swirling inside her. She can feel herself caving in, folding over and over in on herself, wrapping too tightly that she’s suffocating._

_“Fight back. Don’t let her turn you against yourself.” Krosa jumps, about to lash out when she realizes the voice is coming from within herself, but it’s not her own. Tentatively, she reaches out, having no choice but to hope for the best._

_“Who are you?”_

_“Someone who can help if you only let me,” the voice says, and suddenly Krosa’s thrown into another scene; this time she’s watching a battle between two versions of herself. Her pain is immense, anger absolute. She only wants to kill, to end her suffering. She’s about to do it, about to land the final blow when someone comes up from behind. With a cry, she turns around leaving herself on the ground to face a man with an axe that she crushes beneath him._

_“No,” Krosa says, realizing what she’s seeing and who the voice is coming from. “No, I don’t want your help.” Krosa doesn’t think it’ll even be help she’s going to receive. It would only be a trick, revenge for what Krosa did._

_“You don’t have to be afraid.”_

I’m not afraid _, Krosa almost bites out, but then she’s back in that corridor, with the eye on one end, and the shadow figure on the other. Still frozen in place, still as terrifying as before._

_“I’d rather be afraid than dead,” she says instead._

“Wake up.”

_“What?” Krosa asks, shaking her head. That voice was closer than the others, and far too loud._

_“You have to break her hold over you,” the dragon states, fading away. “I can help, I can prove—”_

“Krosa, wake up.”

* * *

Krosa jolts awake, fist flying the moment she sees a dark figure hovering over her, feeling its hand on her shoulder.

 _“Ow!”_ the figure exclaims, hands flying to their face. “Damn it, Krosa!” She knows that voice.

“Brynjolf?” she breathes, trying to settle the wildness of her heart. “Sorry, I—” she starts before stopping just as quickly. Maybe she’s not so sorry after all.

“You what? Don’t tell me you want to take back your apology.”

“No, I just—” She shuts her mouth again and looks away.

“Well, at least you’re starting to get your strength back, lucky me,” he says, hand massaging his jaw. 

“Is it broken?” 

“No. It’s fine… Maybe a little,” he replies, flinching when he touches what must be a sensitive spot. “Shor’s bones, lass. You know how to pack a punch.”

Krosa rolls her eyes, she’s punched way harder than that before. If she wasn’t hampered down by injury, he’d be on his way to a healer or knocked out cold. “What are you doing here?”

“Here,” he says flippantly, handing her a traveling pack that looks a little too familiar. “I was just going to leave it until I saw your fitful slumber.”

Krosa stiffens, hating the fact that someone saw her so weak and vulnerable— and even more that that somebody was Brynjolf. The dream is still raw and fresh and his witnessing it only makes it so much worse. Though, his presence does help distract her from the nightmare’s usual effects. 

“You didn’t sell any of it?” She asks, digging in the bag and catching sight of Savos’s amulet. She thought for sure that would be something he’d sell. She pointedly ignores the needling pinprick in one of her vital organs. Everything else seems to be there as well, save for some food that likely went bad. She sets it down on her lap, looking him in the eyes for the first time.

“Why would I do that?” he asks matter-of-factly.

 _You had no problems selling me out_ , she thinks but decides it’s not worth saying. He’d only deny it anyway. _But what if it is the truth?_

Silence fills the air between them, and Brynjolf breaks the gaze, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “I should probably—” Krosa doesn’t know why, but the thought of him leaving terrifies her more than if he would stay. Not while the room is still dark and full of shadows.

“What happened?” Krosa asks, regretting it instantly. Of all the things she could have said to get him to stay, it had to be _that_ one? _What’s wrong with me?_

“I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re referring— Oh.” Krosa can see the shock on his face, and the possibility of hope. She doesn’t give him any time to process.

“No. Nevermind. Forget I said it.” 

“Why? Can you not bear to hear what I would say?”

Krosa frowns. “I already know what you are going to say.”

“Truly? Word for word?” 

“You know what I meant,” she says sharply. Brynjolf is silent for a moment, and part of her hopes he’ll just leave like he did the day before; part of her hopes he doesn’t.

“I do blame myself,” he says quietly, looking down. “That’s why I’ve been so patient… or trying to be, at least.”

“I said I don’t want to hear it.”

“But I think you do, lass. Why wouldn’t you?”

“You’ll just lie about it.”

He looks at her, eyes blazing with emotions Krosa doesn’t want to decipher. “And if I did, that wouldn’t change what you thought, now would it? But if it was the truth, you’d have to admit that you were wrong. And what would that mean for you? That there is someone you can trust?”

“You’re a thief. How trustworthy can you really be?”

“That didn’t stop you from trusting me before”

“Which was a mistake.”

“You were going to give me a chance once,” Brynjolf says.

Krosa hesitates. Because he’s right. She was willing, once, before all this started. She remembers going back to Riften after the job, excited and ready to try something new. Wanting to please a friend. Giving him a chance was something she desperately wanted— but how would he know that? She never told him what she planned, she only asked for more clarity. Granted, it could be interpreted that way by him, but there’s something odd about him saying that now. They were talking about trust, not chances.

“When did I say that?” Krosa asks despite knowing the answer. But she needs to read him, to figure out if what she suspects is true.

“It was implied,” he answers, and Krosa can see how still he is, trying not to fidget or give anything away. That’s never a good sign.

“You read it didn’t you?” Brynjolf doesn’t say anything but that was answer enough. She can see it written all over his face. She pulls the journal out of her pack, flipping the pages to her last entries. There it is. Her own words talking of chances and weighing the risks.

“Lass—"

“I can’t believe you.” Krosa struggles a moment, wondering whether it's worth it to reign in her anger and what she should do either way. Yelling at him won't get her point across, no. Yelling is too nice. Her hand clinches into a fist, bunching the fabric of her pillow beneath him. Now there's an idea. Krosa doesn't give it anymore thought. She chucks her pillow at him. His grunt is muffled by the fabric, and he catches it when it falls. A pillow is not good enough. 

* * *

Brynjolf watches her survey her surroundings, and he starts backing up a bit, pillow raised in defense. “Lass, there’s no need—”

She throws a cup at him, followed by silverware, other dishes, and whatever she can find around her, the sound of clattering, clanging, and breaking sound throughout the room as he dodges and deflects, putting more and more distance between them. He didn’t even realize how many dishes she had acquired, and wonders for a moment about her large appetite.

“Stop throwing things!” Brynjolf shouts, ducking behind the pillow when the metal pitcher of water comes at him, whatever water was left in it spiraling across the room.

“You are the most despicable, arrogant, entitled person I have ever met!” she cries, hurtling the last of what she has at him. She gets out of bed and opens the drawer to the end table, nearly breaking the damn thing off. She grabs an ink well, about to throw it. But her hand lowers and her eyes narrow. “Why are you smiling?

“I’m not smiling,” he insists, but is unable to hide his grin and curses himself for his tendency towards mischief. “You have horrendous aim, lass,” Brynjolf says, dodging an ink well, quill, and small book that wouldn’t have hit him regardless. 

It’s not the most intelligent thing to say, but he’s enjoying this far more than he should, despite the guilt that still tugs at him. But he never was one to dwell on such things anyway. And he just can't help it— if she can act like a child, then so can he. Too lost in his own amusement, he fails to see the drawer flying through the air, landing with a thunk on his forehead. He grunts as he falls on his ass. 

“Satisfied?” he asks after a moment, lightly touching the offending area with a wince. When she doesn’t answer, he opens his eyes to see her leaning over her bed, one head in her hand, and the other on her wound. He gets to his feet. “Are you—”

“Leave,” she says, voice thick with something Brynjolf can't name. Brynjolf detects a slight tremble in it, and wonders for a brief moment if she's on the verge of tears. Everything about her looks miserable and the guilt returns, stronger than before. _I really am an ass._

“Krosa—” She shakes her head, hand sliding through her hair. He doesn't take the hint, and speaks before she can. “I’m sorry… I should have said that right away. I had no right.”

She pushes off the bed to face him, looking at the ground before him. “How much did you read?”

“Most of it… Well, what I could, at least,” Brynjolf says quickly. ”I was desperate at first, thought it could help me help you but… You’re not the most informative person.” She narrows her eyes and opens her mouth, but Brynjolf beats her to the punch. “It’s hard to get anything out of you, lass, but that was weeks ago, just after you fled. I learned nothing and didn’t think there was anything I could do anyway, so I didn’t touch it for a long time. Barely even thought about it… Then just before you arrived, I read some more.”

“Why?”

“I— I couldn’t tell you—”

“ _Bullshit_.”

“I missed you, alright?" Brynjolf admits, shocked by his tone and by how true it was. "I was looking forward to working with you, and when that didn’t happen, I just— I–” He shrugs helplessly, not knowing what to say. _He_ barely understands why, he’s met many people in his life who have come and gone, yet she was the first one who left an impact. “That’s all there is to it,” he finishes lamely.

“Bullshit,” she repeats, but it’s softer this time and she finally looks at him.

Brynjolf weighs his next words carefully. He may just need to dive in, throwing caution and permission in the wind. After all, why should he have to wait for her to want to hear it? That could be never, and he needs to say it. If he doesn’t nothing will ever come from all his efforts. Not when she’s in charge. Not when she's like this and he keeps making things worse. “I tried sending you a letter when the Alik’r arrived.”

Krosa crosses her arms. “I didn’t get a letter.”

“I’m aware of that, lass. I assume the Alik’r or one of the guards commandeered it somehow.”

“How convenient.”

He doesn’t take the bait. “I was going to warn you when you arrived, and there were a few ideas I had in mind of how we could deal with it.” Surely she remembers him trying to lead her away and keep her quiet, or maybe she found some way to turn that against him as well.

“What were those ideas?”

“Remember when we met and I offered to—"

“Pull one over on them." Krosa finishes slowly, mind at a far-off place for a moment before continuing, looking into his eyes at last. "That’s what you were trying to do?”

“I was going to ask you first. I knew it would have been a risk you may not have wanted to take.”

“And how did you know that?”

“I didn’t have your journal then, but the Alik’r told me why they were looking for you."

“Did you believe them?”

“I know you better than that.”

Krosa shakes her head slowly, a sardonic smile on her face. “No. You don’t. You don’t know anything."

"Then tell me,” Brynjolf urges, risking a few steps forward. He sees her close in on herself, pulling back whatever branches she was offering him.

“No."

“Do you see what I mean, lass? You never tell me anything!”

“And what about you? You haven’t told me anything about yourself, and I don’t go prying and digging into things I have no right to!" she says, coming up to him and shoving him in the chest. 

“Hey—” Brynjolf starts, but there’s no stopping her now. "I don’t  _ owe _ you anything,” she says, shoving him again, “and you’ve taken what wasn’t yours to take— and why is that surprising?” She laughs, a hollow and bitter sound, hand going to her head. ”That’s what you do best, isn’t it?” she says wondrously, making her way back to the spot by her bed, arms crossed and all sign of anything between them gone, leaving only empty space. “Maybe you didn’t betray me, but I still don’t see a reason to trust you with anything, not when it means so little to you, despite what you preach.” 

Brynjolf tries to say something, he really does. But all words die on his lips.

“What _happened_ in here?” Ysolt asks, coming into the room. Neither of them says anything, they only look away sheepishly. Krosa is slowly turning red and the priestess turns to face Brynjolf. She scowls at him, grabbing his arm. _"You_ are coming with me.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave a kudos or review! I like knowing what people think!


	5. Temptations of a Blind Rage

"I never thought I'd have to scold a grown man as if he were a child," Ysolt says, pacing. “I don’t care who started it.” She stops her pacing to turn to him. “I told you she needs to rest and you were not allowed to visit, so you being there already proves you were in the wrong!”

“I was just giving her some of her things!” Brynjolf says, trying not to sound like a petulant child. “I didn’t think it would turn out like that.”

Ysolt scoffs. “Don’t pretend like you didn’t sneak in there earlier. She told me you were there before.”

“I wasn’t trying to!” Brynjolf exclaims, voice cracking. It takes all that he has to keep from telling her everything and getting the chance to explain himself…  _ But what would I even say? _ And why would he tell Ysolt of all people? It’s Krosa he wants to tell, and Ysolt has nothing to do with any of it. So, he shuts his yapper before he gets ahead of himself and regrets it.  _ By the Nine, Krosa really knows how to unsettle a man.  _ Brynjolf sighs at the thought, suddenly noticing Ysolt is looking at him expectantly.

“What did you say, lass?”

“I said: Do you understand?”

“Understand what?”

Ysolt exhales slowly, pinching the bridge of her nose. “If you visit her again, you’ll be thrown out and fined, unless she specifies she’s okay with seeing you.”

_ Which will never happen,  _ Brynjolf thinks, before saying, “Aye, lass… I understand.”

“Good. I’m sorry it has to be this way.”

“Don’t be. It’s not your fault she doesn’t want to see me,” Brynjolf says, trying not to sound too dejected. He doesn’t believe he was all that successful, but Ysolt doesn’t seem to notice.

“If you don’t mind, what did you do?” Ysolt asks after a few moments.

“Lots of things, apparently,” Brynjolf scoffs, mind going back to everything Krosa said to him. He’s sure that her list of grievances against him will only grow in his absence. Despite her claims otherwise, he does know her pretty well. He may not know much about her past, but her temperament, personality, and overall bearing is too apparent to ignore.  _ I’m going to have my work cut out for me,  _ he thinks,  _ if _ he’ll do anything about it in the first place. Maybe he’ll just let her be alone if she wants, after all, it is her decision. There would be no point in pursuit if Krosa decides it’s not worth it. It would certainly save him a headache.  _ And what am I even pursuing? Friendship? That’s it? _

“I’m sorry lass,” he says to Ysolt before his thoughts take over again, “but I should get going. I’m poor company at the moment.”

If Ysolt tried to stop him, he didn’t notice. It wouldn’t have made a difference anyway. His thoughts are a fog: a swirling mist, heavy and tumultuous. He tries to understand them at first— tear them apart and reason with them— but it doesn’t take long before it becomes too exhausting to bother. Riften is quiet for once, the world forgotten as Brynjolf makes his way back to the Flagon. 

“I need a drink.” 

“I can tell,” Vekel says, pouring him a pint. “The first one’s on the house.”

“What? Why are you giving  _ him  _ free drinks?” Delvin calls out from a few tables over.

“Because  _ he  _ doesn’t hang out here every hour of every  _ gods-damned _ day!” Vekel shouts and, for a few moments, the room is quiet.

“Well that shut him up,” Brynjolf says, glad for the distraction. He takes a few sips of the mead, wanting nothing more than to drown himself in it. But it’s too early for that. “Do you know if Tonilia had any luck with the weapons and armor?”

“Oh yeah. You should have seen the look on Mercer’s face. She wasn’t able to sell them at full price due to the damage, but she got a couple thousand silver out of it. Your friend sure helped us out there.”

“She’s not my friend,” Brynjolf says. “She made that clear enough.”

“Was it that bad?”

“Yes— No… I don’t know,” Brynjolf sighs, taking another drink. “Her opinion of me could hardly get worse at the moment.”

“You’re not going to try and fix it?”

“That’s what I’ve been  _ trying _ to do,” Brynjolf says, and clearly he’s terrible at it. He can’t  _ fix  _ anything. “Maybe I should just stop, though. It only makes things worse.” He pushes the tankard away, tired of its tastelessness. When some of its contents splash out of it, Vekel gives Brynjolf a disapproving look. Brynjolf doesn’t have enough energy to look apologetic.

“You know, I’ve never seen you so worked up over anything before,” Vekel says, taking the tankard away.

“You said that the last time you were trying to get me to spill the beans.”

“I did not.”

“Well, you said something like it at least,” Brynjolf says, mind turning to that day. It wasn’t even that long ago; he was so hopeful then.

“I don’t think you should stop trying,” Vekel says as he starts wiping down the counter.

Brynjolf blinks. “And what makes you say that?”

“It’s just a thought,” Vekel says with a shrug, not looking up.

“Do you have any suggestions?”

“I don’t know what the problem is, so I can’t really give any worthwhile advice.”

“Nice try,” Brynjolf says with a smirk. If Brynjolf wasn’t already wary of him, the ploy would have worked.

Vekel laughs. “It was worth a shot, but I  _ am _ serious about not giving up.”

“Even if I did want to try and mend things again, I’m not allowed to visit her,” Brynjolf says, slumping in his chair. And he doesn’t think it would be a good idea anyway. It would only annoy Krosa to no end.  _ What should I do? _

“I’m sure you can find a way in,” Vekel says, and Brynjolf sighs.

“Not this time, I’m afraid. I’m sure Ysolt would have someone guarding the door to her room.”

“Who’s Ysolt?”

“Don’t you start,” Brynjolf groans, getting up from his seat. 

“Well now you got me interested,” Vekel says with a grin.

Brynjolf only shakes his head, and waves goodbye as he walks to his room.  _ He’s worse than a mother hen,  _ Brynjolf muses, trying to muster a small smile at the thought, but it quickly turns into a frown.

_ “I don’t owe you anything!” _

Worthless.

_ “You’ve taken what isn’t yours to take, and why is that so surprising?” _

Worthless.

_ “That’s what you do best, isn’t it?” _

Worthless.

_ “You’re no son of mine.” _

Brynjolf freezes, remembering that day and everything associated with it. He shoves the memories away just as the tears sting his eyes. 

_ “I didn’t say worthless.” _

Brynjolf knows what he needs to do. He grabs a quill and a sheet of paper, then starts writing.

_ Krosa, I know I’m not your favorite person at the moment, but when you get over yourself and find yourself in need of help— _

Brynjolf crosses it out quickly and tries again a few moments later.

_ Krosa, here’s a list of things I know about you and where that information came from. Following it will be an equal amount of information about— _

“No, that’s stupid.”

Brynjolf sits there for a while, staring at the paper, foot tapping incessantly on the ground. He stops when the sound starts to annoy him, but it isn’t long till he’s tapping the desk with the quill instead.  _ Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea— wait. I know.  _

This goes on for an hour at least, the cycle seemingly never-ending. When his hand starts cramping, he starts writing with his other one, doing his best not to leave smudges. When he finally does have a version that he’s happy with, he sighs in relief.

“There. That’s not so bad,” Brynjolf says, massaging his hand. But maybe he shouldn’t give it to her. It’s not like she’ll read it anyway.  _ What was I even thinking? _ Brynjolf thinks, getting ready to crumple it in a ball and toss it with the others.  _ Quit being such a coward. _ He gets up quickly, shoving the letter in his pocket, and he walks out the door, setting a pace that will keep anyone from disturbing him.

When he gets to the temple, Ysolt stops him in his tracks.

“I promise I wasn’t going to sneak in. I was just going to ask you to give her this,” he says, holding the letter out to her.

“I can’t do that.”

“What? Why not?”  _ If this is another one of those damn rules, I swear— _

“She’s not here,” Ysolt says with a look of pity. “She left hours ago.” 

“Oh.”

* * *

“So. You failed.”

Krosa shrugs. “That happens sometimes.”

“Don’t give me lip,” Delphine sneers, crumpling the note. “You have no right.”

“I did what I could.”

“It wasn’t enough,” Delphine states, and Krosa can’t argue that. 

“So what are we going to do now?” Krosa asks, wondering if Delphine will take Esbern’s advice or come up with her own plan of action like usual.

“We leave for Whiterun tomorrow. Don’t disturb me till then,” Delphine says, walking away. Krosa hears Delphine mumble to herself, “Some Dragonborn.”

Krosa misses what else is said, but it’s not hard to put two and two together. Krosa makes her way to her room, feeling heavier than usual.

Aiden came by for a visit before she left, apologizing profusely for nearly getting her killed. It wasn’t hard to forgive him, and he took her gratitude and acknowledgment of his bravery  _ very  _ well— so well that she wonders if that was what he was after in the first place. He also tried to get her to give him sword lessons, which she had refused as nicely as she was able to. The fact that he kept referring to it as ‘a stabbity class’ did not help his case. 

Brynjolf didn’t show his face again, and Krosa’s not bothered by it. Not in the least. 

Krosa sighs, hand brushing through her newly dyed hair. She studies a piece of it, still not used to the darker color, and she wonders again what to do with it until it grows to her preferred length. If only she knew how to braid. She tucks it behind her ear and looks around the room helplessly. She’s not hungry, her sword doesn’t need sharpening, and she has no quill to write in her journal with.

Krosa reread it furiously as she travelled, wondering just what Brynjolf saw: what he may remember from it; what he thought. She’s glad there were parts he could not read. The ones that truly matter. Part of her still can’t believe he did such a thing. Part of her was hoping he’d lie to keep the peace. But—  _ No. It’s not worth dwelling on.  _ There are more important things. Here she is thinking about  _ him _ , when the whole world is on the brink of falling apart.  _ Pathetic. _

The walls seem to close in around her, getting darker and more cramped.  _ I can’t stay here.  _ She needs to do something— anything.

Krosa leaves the Inn; the turbulent winter wind is welcome company. The sky is dark and the sun, covered by layers of silvery clouds, moves slowly across the sky. It’s been dark the whole trip from Riften to Riverwood, cold and bitter. Gray and bleak. Krosa finds that she actually likes it. It’s something to feel, after all. Something to keep her awake and alert, something to distract her from the constant fire inside. She’s used to the feeling of burning, thanks to the creatures taking up residence inside of her. 

There was a dragon she spotted on her way back, but she avoided confronting it. Krosa doubts she can take one on alone, but that isn’t the real reason she avoided it so adamantly. She doesn’t want to do anything to fuel that fire.

Fire has been an often occurrence in her nightmares. Cities burning— one close and fresh, one foreign yet familiar and far away. Then there’s a world in ruins, ash falling like snow and Krosa can’t do anything but walk through it and see the bodies beneath the rubble. Running. Fighting. Beasts she can’t slay, winged with scales or with two hands and feet. People she can’t save.

Falling.

Failing.

Fear.

Flames.

_ She falls to her knees, spent and sore. The snow turns to ash, staining the white with gray. Black. Red drips from her lips, staining her hands, running down her legs. Her throat constricts in a silent scream— one that no one can hear as she struggles to breathe. Drowning in an ocean of fear, fire, and blood: an ocean of torment, an ocean of dread. _

Krosa shakes her head, trying to banish those images from her mind, those feelings from her heart. Even awake she can’t escape from the nightmares. Trembling, she goes to the woods, grabbing an axe sticking out of a pile of wood on the way. 

_ “You don’t stand a chance.” _

_ “Alduin will be your undoing. Maybe he’ll be doing you a favor: you won’t have to suffer if everything comes to an end.” _

Hacking and slashing. That’s what she does. The trees don’t stand a chance against her wrath. She thinks only of the blade of the axe and the next tree she plans to tear apart. Every hit perfectly placed, stance perfectly balanced, swing perfectly in control.

_ “Don’t listen to them. They will say anything to hinder you,”  _ a voice from inside says, and Krosa rolls her eyes.

_ “And I should listen to you? Why?” _

_ “We’re more alike than you know.”  _ Krosa resents that. _ “You crave power, control. It’s natural for you, really, considering what you are. Yet you have neither, or so you think.” _

Krosa scoffs.  _ “And what do you want? Me to give you power or control over me? Not going to happen.”  _

“You know, if you wanted to chop firewood, you’re doing it all wrong.” Krosa spins around, the dragon’s presence disappearing in an instant. A tall, gangly teenage boy is watching her, leaning against a tree. “I saw you take my da’s axe,” he says with a shrug.

“I— I needed to borrow it for a moment,” Krosa says, hand tightening around it. 

“I won’t tell no one, if you bring back some of that wood and chop up some more for me. I wasn’t in the mood for it myself, but my da says it needs to get done.”

“Why doesn’t he do it then?”

“He says I need to learn more about self-discipline and control. Apparently, chopping wood will teach me— well, that and a whole list of chores he has me do everyday.”

“And you don’t want to learn?”

“It seems like you need it more than I do— not that I’m saying you’re undisciplined. Your form is great— as in— I mean.” Krosa raises her eyebrow. The boy clears his throat and stands up straight. “Clearly there’s somethin’ you need to get out of your system, and there’s things I want to get out of my system that doesn’t involve hacking at logs.” 

Krosa rolls her eyes. Teenagers were never her favorite, especially the male variety. But, it’s better than trying to do anything else or nothing at all, so Krosa accepts. 

“Cool. Just don’t let my da see ya,” the boy says, then saunters away with all the grace of a newborn calf. Krosa takes in her surroundings, wondering where she should start.

* * *

Winter. The snow. The cold. As a Nord, Ulfric has a natural resistance to it, an endurance and hardiness of heart that allows them to persevere through the darkest of days and coldest of nights. Tullius doesn’t have that advantage: it is true that there are Nords fighting alongside him, but his army consists of enough outsiders to not truly make it a significant force. Ulfric never utilized this before. After all, war in winter is seldom a profitable thing. But that’s going to change. This is going to be the year the war ends. He can feel it as true as the storm that’s coming on the morrow.

His trip up the mountain may have been fruitless, but his attack on Falkreath was not. When his men first heard the news that the war will continue as before, they took it as gracefully as they could. Well, as gracefully as Nords can do anything. It took Ulfric a little more convincing than usual. They’re eager to have the war end, yes; however, they expected rest and recuperation, not blood and battle. Their attitudes changed after taking control of Falkreath.

The gate of Riverwood comes into sight— the first stop of his Whiterun campaign. He knows it won’t be as easy as Falkreath, and if he wants to win the battle as cleanly as he wants, he’s going to need some help from both the inside and outside. Again, his men grumbled when they heard the news of how soon they would be moving, but Ulfric won’t back down. Not on this.  _ They can have their rest when the war is over and Skyrim is mine.  _ And then they can rest more comfortably than they would have otherwise.

Ulfric passes through Riverwood’s gate without a problem, dressed as the average passer-by. How different the town looks, covered in white. Smoke escapes through the chimneys of every house within, billowing through the skies like a dark rolling mist. The sound of a smith working at the forge, someone chopping wood, and the howling of the wind puts a smile on his face, and the smell of hearth-fire reminds him of home. 

He will not let his home be destroyed. Not by elves, men, or dragons.  _ If only I can get the Dragonborn by my side,  _ Ulfric muses. But there’s no time to start the search, and he’s not about to use any resources for such a purpose— not until Whiterun is his. The Dragonborn would have a hard time avoiding the meeting with most of Skyrim under Ulfric’s control.

But first he needs to ask for directions. His last visit to Riverwood was when he was tired and delirious from injury. While it’s not very kingly, he’s not  _ supposed _ to be high and mighty, just a simple traveler— his pride can take it. Gerdur told him a lot about the people of Riverwood, and he knows better than to ask the blacksmith or the inn-keeper.  _ It wouldn’t be worth the risk.  _

“Excuse me,” he says, coming up behind the woman chopping wood. The woman stiffens, axe falling to the ground. “Sorry for startling you, but—” Ulfric doesn’t get to finish. 

The woman bolts. 

_ Shit.  _ Ulfric is quick to follow, not going to let her get away. If she’s an Imperial fanatic, or worse, a spy, she could ruin all his plans. Jorleif did tell him to be wary. He catches the end of her cloak and yanks it back, bringing her crashing to the ground. He’s quick to pin her there, though she nearly escapes after ditching her cloak.

“ _ Krosa? _ ” he asks when he sees her face.

“Let me go,” she says, struggling against his hold.

He doesn’t listen— in fact, he tightens his grip on her. “Why did you run?”

“I didn’t want to talk to you, now let me  _ go _ !” she says, and he acquiesces after a few moments of consideration. Once she’s on her feet, she asks, “What are you even doing here?”

“I could ask you the same thing,” he retorts, towering over her. “Weren’t you planning on fleeing Skyrim with your tail between your legs?” 

Krosa seethes, rolling her eyes before turning and walking away.

“Where are you going?” 

“Away from you.”

“Ah, of course. Running away again, what a surprise.” 

He should have expected the punch. What he could never expect, however, was how fast it came and how hard she could hit. His head whips to the side with the force of it, and he stumbles, nearly losing his footing. It takes him a second to process that it even happened. There’s a fire in her eyes, a fury that escapes her every breath and he knows she wants a fight. Ulfric’s fine with that. She needs to be put in her place.

Krosa’s ready for his attack when it comes, dodging and attacking simultaneously. Ulfric barely manages to deflect her kick to the knee, and his elbow connects with her face. She stumbles but recovers quickly with a swift knee to his stomach and punch to his face. He deflects the punch, but the knee lands true. She backs away before he can react. They circle each other, both more careful and calculating than before.

She’s faster than him, more ferocious, but Ulfric is stronger and more composed. He lashes out once, testing the waters. Kick, punch, swipe, dodge— every exchange of blows is evenly matched. Despite his annoyance, Ulfric can’t help but be impressed. He knew she would be good— better than most others he fought. Even when deflecting her blows, it hurts (though he’s proud to see that it seems he has the same effect on her). 

But impressive or not, the odds are not in her favor. Already she’s tiring out, sweat staining her face as her arms tremble slightly. Ulfric feels it pulling at him as well, but he still has plenty of stamina left. If there’s one thing Nords are good at— besides drinking and sex— it’s brawling.

Krosa doesn’t stand a chance

* * *

Krosa falls into the rhythm of the fight, letting it overtake her. Punch, kick, dodge, swipe— every hit fueling her fury. It’s all she feels, all she knows.

“Can’t you see why I want you to fight for Skyrim? You’re a fantastic fighter, one of the best I’ve seen! You could—” 

Krosa doesn’t want to hear it. She knees him in the groin and he doubles over with a grunt before lunging at her wildly. She uses his momentum to throw him into a tree. He lands with a thud and the tree shudders in response. Without warning, she’s covered in snow, the barrage of it nearly knocking her over. Ulfric doesn’t miss his chance. He lands a kick to her stomach that sends her flying and crashing into her wood pile. 

Krosa’s had enough of him. Him and his flowery words and endless arrogance and pride. She starts chucking logs at him as he comes closer, slowing his progress. Him and his damned purpose, his pointless war, his stupid offers.

* * *

_ “Vander, stop. She can’t take any more.” _

_ “She can and she will,” he says, bringing down the whip.  _

_ Krosa cries out, tears mixing with the blood on her face. _

_ “After all I’ve done for you, letting you live, giving you a place to sleep, giving you food to eat _ —  _ and  _ this _ is how you repay me?” he shouts, whip coming down again and again, and soon Krosa loses all sense of pain. All sense of consciousness. The darkness overtakes her, but the darkness is no friend. _

* * *

The next thing her hand falls on is the hilt of the axe.

_ “Kill him. He’ll kill you if given the chance.” _

_ “Maim him.” _

_ “Tear him apart.” _

_ “Show him the power you possess.” _

Time seems to slow as Krosa’s hand tightens around the axe. Fire flows like blood, her heartbeat thuds in her chest as something in her ignites.

* * *

Krosa wakes up to darkness.  _ Where am I? What happened? _ She sits up, hand going to her pounding head.

_ “Teach him a lesson.”  _ She remembers Ulfric.

_ “He’s asking for it.” _ She remembers her fight.

_ “Show him the control you have.”  _ She remembers the fury.

_ “You don’t even need the axe.” _

“No. No no no no—” Krosa can’t remember what happened. Was it even real, or was it a dream? A nightmare— Vaermina’s newest creation? If it was, Krosa will kill her, but if it wasn’t— She feels her body for wounds, groaning when she feels the bruises.  _ Oh no.  _ She creates a light and looks down to see blood staining her hands.

Author's Note: Sorry for the wait! This chapter was _very_ hard to write, if my beta-reader didn't help me out this would have taken a lot longer! So what do you think so far?


	6. Lonely Hearts and Restless Nights

Delphine hates waiting. It’s all she’s done for years now, and while she can find solace in the fact the waiting had a purpose to it, this time there is no higher purpose. The Dragonborn is late. While it shouldn’t come as much of a surprise since it was obvious from the start Krosa is more of a brute than an intellectual, Delphine still has a hard time believing anyone could be so pitifully inept. After their first encounter, the damned woman has shown no initiative, no drive, and she only does as she’s told. She hardly speaks and when she does it’s the equivalent of a babbling brook. All she seems to be able to do is eat, fight, and sleep.

Skyrim is full of meatheads, but Delphine had hoped the Dragonborn— who was meant to save the _world_ — would not be one of them. _And she’s not even a Nord,_ Delphine sighs. _At least it makes things easier for me._

She reads the note one last time before setting it aflame.

_If only Esbern were here._

It would have been nice to have someone she can rely on. It would have been nice to have a friend after all this time. Esbern and her rarely got along, but they always had each other’s backs. _He will be avenged,_ Delphine decides right then and there. She doesn’t care how or when. She will find a way to make the Thalmor pay. Her mind is already swirling with possibilities and plans. Soon Delphine won’t be the one who needs to hide.

When the fire reaches her fingertips, she drops the note and watches it burn until there’s nothing left but ashes.

* * *

_“Don’t you think he deserves it?”_

_“He’d only get in your way.”_

_“A killer like you would—”_

_“Don’t listen to them. Listen to your surroundings.”_

She hears footsteps and tries to school her heartbeat, shoving her hands between the crevice of her legs. There’s the rattle of keys and a sliver of orange light as the door slowly opens. 

“Ulfric?”

“So, you’re awake. I thought I heard something,” Ulfric says, closing the door quietly behind him. 

“You’re alive.” 

“You seem… relieved,” Ulfric says, settling into a chair beside her bed, candle flickering.

“I thought I killed you.”

"And why did you think that?” he asks, tone suggesting he did not think she’d be capable of it in the first place. 

"The blood on my hands—” Krosa says, feeling them itch in recognition. 

He raises his eyebrows, and carefully says; “There is no blood on your hands.”

“Yes there is,” Krosa says and looks down at her hands again, this time there’s nothing there. She curls her hands into fists. “I’m losing my mind.” Krosa’s not sure if dragons can snicker, but it certainly feels like they are doing so.

_“You’ll lose more than that when Alduin has his way with you.”_

_“There will be nothing left.”_

_“He will devour everything… But he’ll save you for last.”_

“I’ll have to agree with you on that,” Ulfric says with a smirk, and she nearly jumps in response.

Her mind goes back to the axe. Did she try to kill him and he stopped her? Did she even try it in the first place, or was it all just a _really_ convincing nightmare? The only person who knows is sitting a few feet away from her, looking at her suspiciously.

“What happened?” she asks.

“I won’t answer unless you tell me what was going through your head during the fight,” he says, and Krosa tenses at the thought of recalling all that had passed in her mind— all that had been said or felt— she’s not sure she can relive it without acting out. She had never felt such fury before, such hatred… and she can still feel what remains.

_“It's been inside you all along, there’s no point in denying it.”_

_“You’re more like us than you realize.”_

_“Maybe there’s a spot for you by Alduin’s side.”_

_"You have to learn to control them."_

Krosa huffs angrily, wondering why in the world that dragon is still trying to get on her good side after what it tried to get her to do.

 _"You misunderstood my intentions."_ It says in reply. 

“Krosa.”

“What.” 

"You owe me an explanation,” Ulfric states, tone demanding. Krosa needs a few moments to remember what their conversation was even about.

“I wanted to kill you.”

Ulfric scoffs. “That much was obvious.”

“I was losing control,” she admits quietly, and he only gives her a look. “The voices—”

“Voices?” he asks, eyebrows raised.

“The dragons—” Krosa says quickly in her defense, before pausing. She can’t tell him about that. Who knows what he would do if he knew what she was. “Vaermina, she—” Krosa starts, but stops again. She doesn’t even know how much of a part Vaermina played in all that— still doesn’t know if the whispers were a dream or not. Once again, Krosa doesn’t really know anything at all.

“I see,” Ulfric says slowly, drawing her back to the present. “How long have they been tormenting you?”

“What?” 

“The nightmares.”

Krosa hesitates.

“Admitting it won’t make me think any less of you,” Ulfric states humorously, and Krosa breathes out a small laugh.

“Almost a year, I think," she says, remembering the old priest and the deal she refused to make. "She was tormenting a whole village until I put a stop to it… and they’ve gotten worse since— since—” Krosa goes quiet, cursing herself. She can barely even finish a sentence. What must Ulfric think of her now? He probably thinks she is even more cowardly and pathetic than he did before.

“Helgen?” Ulfric finishes for her. 

Krosa stays silent, working her jaw. _Why does he have to be such a damned know-it-all?_

“Trauma is a hard thing to overcome,” he says, and it takes Krosa a moment to realize he's not patronizing her. “I’ve had my share of it and so have many others… What happened at Helgen—”

Krosa shakes her head vehemently, the fabric of her blanket bunching up in her fists. “I don’t want to talk about it. About any of it.” 

“Alright," Ulfric says, and Krosa closes her eyes as she tries to loosen her taut muscles. There are several moments of silence before Ulfric speaks up again, “You didn’t try.” 

Krosa looks at him blankly. 

“You dropped the axe. I pinned you down and you started to panic, said you couldn’t breathe. Then you passed out. That’s the only reason why you’re still alive. If you had tried, I would have killed you outright”

Krosa wonders if that would have been best, before quickly shaking those thoughts away. She can’t die. For once in her life, she has more of a purpose— a reason to live. But now, more than anything she wishes that it all could just end so she could finally get some rest.

_“You do not need to fear death.”_

_“The world would be better without you in it.”_

_“Alduin will rule in your absence.”_

“Where are we?” she asks Ulfric timidly, distracting herself from their newest rampage.

“Gerdur’s house.”

“And the time?”

“Hard to tell, though I would assume late morning.”

“But it’s so dark,” Krosa states, eyebrows furrowing.

“That happens in Skyrim. The sun rises later, falls sooner, and the thick clouds of winter block most of the light we would have had.” Krosa only nods as she tries to make sense of it, and Ulfric smirks. “There’s also the fact that the room’s window is blocked with a heavy curtain.” He says, getting up and pulling it open. The room immediately brightens, not enough to hurt her eyes, but enough to know that the sun really has risen, even if it can't be seen. “It helps with insulation.”

“Oh.” _Idiot,_ Krosa thinks, relief settling into her shoulders. So there really was nothing real about it, or it was only blown way out of proportion. 

_Delphine_ is going to be in hysterics for her being so late. Krosa sighs at the thought of that confrontation. She'd rather stay here and make small talk with Ulfric. Neither of them say anything for several moments, and eventually Krosa decides to succumb to her fate. “Can I leave?” she asks, only then realizing that Ulfric still might have some form of retribution planned.

“By all means," Ulfric states, getting to his feet. "I’ll show you out. I have several things I need to get done now that this has been dealt with… But there was one more thing I wanted to ask.”

"What is it?" Krosa asks, moving to follow. He doesn’t answer till they reach the front door. 

“Why haven’t you left Skyrim?”

“I wasn’t able to.”

“Why not?”

“You said there was only one more question,” Krosa says, mustering up a smirk, and Ulfric breathes out a huff of laughter.

“Yes, I suppose I did,” he says, stepping around her to open the door. “My offer from before still stands, if you ever find yourself interested.”

“I won’t be.”

“We’ll see… If you’re thinking of travel, I’d be careful,” he calls out as she starts walking, “there’s a storm on its way.”

* * *

Ulfric closes the door behind her. Galmar would be in an outrage if he learned Ulfric let her go freely, but Ulfric knows she can be useful, whether she wants to be or not. And after today, he doubts she'll feel any animosity towards him. Or if she did, it would quickly be replaced with shame and make her more likely to comply with his wishes. Either way, she’s of more use to him alive than dead, even if she’s still an unknown variable.

Confident in his analysis, Ulfric makes his way to the kitchen.

“Is she not staying to eat? I made enough for all of us.”

“She wasn’t hungry,” he says lightly, knowing if he did offer she would have refused anyway. _But Gerdur doesn’t need to know that._ “Did you get the chance to make that map I asked for?”

“Here it is,” she says, placing the rolled map before him on the table, followed quickly by the soup. “I also circled the best houses and routes to avoid.”

“Thank you, Gerdur. When this is all over, I’ll be sure to properly thank you for your efforts,” Ulfric says, bringing the spoon to his mouth.

“There’s no need,” Gerdur says with a wave of her hand— cheeks turning pink.

“You’ve done much and asked for nothing, not to mention you’re a fine cook. It will be done.”

“Alright. I suppose I can’t rightly refuse you.”

* * *

“Where are you going?’”

“I’m sorry, lass, I’m just not feeling it today.”

“ _Brynjolf—”_ Sapphire scoffs, but Brynjolf doesn’t want to hear it.

“Find someone else to sleep with!” he shouts, slamming the door behind him, ignoring the obscenities she throws his way. If she trashes his room, he won’t let her come back, simple as that. 

“That was quick,” Delvin snorts as Brynjolf passes by his table, but Brynjolf doesn’t give him the satisfaction of a reaction or reply. Everyone knows that Delvin is the quickest.

“Where are you going?” Vekel calls after him.

“Out of this damned place!”

“What’s got him in a tizzy?” Brynjolf hears Delvin ask, but Brynjolf is through the cistern door before he can hear Vekel’s reply.

The people of Riften lose a lot of coin within the next few hours, but still Brynjolf itches for more. It’s not enough. Nothing is ever enough. He feels heavy, mostly due to his bulging pockets, but also— there’s something else. Brynjolf can’t name it. He isn’t even sure if he wants to. Being confident has always been one of his traits, same with being convivial. But not today. Not for the past few days. All he knows is there’s something missing and nothing feels the same.

“Brynjolf? Is that you?” Brynjolf spins around to see Ysolt standing there, looking worn out; her orange and yellow robes stand out amidst the darkness, but even they are sad looking, the colors fading and the edges frayed.

“I’m afraid it is lass,” he says with a smirk.

“I was hoping to run into you soon.”

Brynjolf raises his eyebrows. “Is there something I can do for you?”

“I want to cash in on that favor.” Brynjolf forgot about that. “Walk with me to my house?”

“Lass, I—” Oh, how should he say it? “I’m afraid I’m not really in the mood tonight.” And he’s not sure he’ll be able to perform properly.

“It won’t take long.” It would certainly be better than with Sapphire, so maybe it will be different with her. And there are other ways. The memory of their time together before certainly helps warm him up to it.

“Alright.”

They say nothing else as she leads him to her house. When he first saw it, he wasn’t sure they’d be able to do much with the space. It’s more organized than it was then, but still cramped. He takes off his cloak and starts working at his clothes. _Let’s just get this over with._

“What are you doing?”

“Undressing, lass. That’s usually the first step. Well, second technically, but you know what I mean.”

“No. No I don't—” Understanding dawns on her face and she smacks his arm. “I didn’t mean _that!”_ She exclaims, pacing. “What is wrong with you? Is that the only thing on your mind!? And you think I would— Ugh!” Brynjolf doesn’t know who is more embarrassed. 

“In my defense—” he starts, but she gets there quicker.

“Look. Sleeping with you was a mistake.” 

“I— Okay.” 

“Oh no, please don’t—" she starts, hand going to her forehead in her panic. "I didn’t mean it like that. I just, I regretted doing it almost immediately.”

“If your goal was to put it a little nicer lass, you’re not doing so great,” Brynjolf says as lightly as he's able.

“I’m sorry. It wasn't you, you were— nevermind.” Her face is nearly purple from blushing so hard. “I was having a bad day— several, actually, and I just— I was so—”

“Lonely?” Brynjolf tries for her, and she nods. He studies her, not sure what he’s looking for. 

Nothing about her is striking, though she’s a far cry from being homely. A touch more color to her features would do the trick, as would a change in apparel. He hasn’t seen anyone that looks good in those shades of yellow and orange. 

He doesn’t really know much about her personally, but she seems nice enough. She’s certainly a better person than most, not to mention her skills in bed. Capable, independent, sensitive… And she can make even _him_ follow the rules. To him, she seems more than perfect for the role of a wife. 

“How long have you been a priestess of Mara, lass?” he asks, hoping he’s not stepping across any boundaries or lines.

“Longer than I’d like to admit.” She says wryly, and Brynjolf smirks.

“So, no one’s caught your fancy?”

Ysolt sighs. “If only that were the problem… I find it’s the other way around. I— I guess I—” She clears her throat. “Can we get back to business? I’ve already had an exhausting day.” If Brynjolf had anything comforting or inspiring to say, he would say it.

“Sure thing, lass. What can I help you with?”

“Aiden says you specialize in finding things.” _Thank the gods,_ Brynjolf thinks. He never did remember to ask Aiden what he's told Ysolt.

“That I do.” 

* * *

“You’re late,” Delphine says when Krosa enters the room. Krosa only scowls in reply. “What happened to you?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“I leave you alone for one night, and you get into a fight?” Delphine asks, following her down the stairs.

“I said I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Fine. But a little more discretion from now on would be nice.” Their bags are waiting on the floor. Krosa grabs her own and shoves Delphines into her hands.

“Let’s just go. I heard someone say a storm may be coming.”

“I doubt it.”

The storm did come, but Krosa knows better than to say ‘I told you so’. It set them off schedule for two days, forcing them to wait in a cave. They weren’t the only ones who sought refuge within its walls, so there was a fight, easily won with the two of them. Krosa has to admit that, despite her age and Krosa’s dislike towards her, Delphine is good in a fight. They work well enough together, but that isn’t enough to soften the hard edges of their relationship. It doesn’t help that they’ve gotten dangerously low on food.

“What’s wrong with you?” Delphine asks the second day out of the blue. “You’ve been quiet the whole trip, and you’ve hardly slept.” 

“I don’t see how that’s any different from before,” Krosa snaps back, not even glancing in her direction. Delphine only huffs in reply, before going to check the weather once again. Not much else is said between them. They seem to have come to a quiet agreement to stay on their side of the cave and not even glance in the other’s direction. 

Krosa can’t stand it. Ever since Riverwood, her torment has been endless. The silence is filled with voices, and her dreams filled with violence. Her sword and dagger have already been over-sharpened, and there’s nowhere left to explore in the cave. Writing in her journal doesn’t help as it only leads to remembrance, ironic, considering a lack of memory being the reason she started keeping a journal in the first place.

That night, Krosa lies awake in the darkness, having given up on sleeping after hours of tossing and turning. The world seems so small, and Krosa so isolated from it all. She’s alone in her thoughts, the only thing present in the darkness that closes in: alone with those damned dragons in her head. Krosa can’t stand it.

 _“Are you there?”_ she asks quickly, before she can think better of it. At first it seems like the dragon won’t reply, and Krosa hates how her heart sinks.

 _“I’m always here, there’s little choice in the matter,”_ it says, the sound of its voice strangely comforting.

 _That sounds reassuring,_ Krosa thinks to herself before realizing it may have heard. There is no indication that it did, but Krosa knows she has to be more careful. She is not willing to risk giving them more power over her— something this dragon seems to know a lot of.

 _“How do I know I can trust you?”_ she asks, and after a few moments of silence adds: _"I know the others’ names, why don’t I know yours?”_ The dragon laughs, a sound Krosa still hasn’t gotten used to… though it doesn’t sound as mocking as the others.

_“You took that knowledge from them… You cannot take what I do not possess.”_

_“You don’t have a name?”_

_“All dragons have a name… I only do not remember what mine was.”_

* * *

_“I think I’ve finally thought of a name for you, little one,” Nazir says, and Krosa perks up immediately._

_“Really!? What is it? What is it?” she asks, tugging on his shirt. Nazir places his hand on her shoulder to keep her from bouncing up and down._

_“How does ‘Krosa’ sound?”_

_“Krosa?” she asks, testing how it rolls off her tongue, trying to decide if she likes the sound. “What does it mean?’_

_“I’m not sure, but I knew a Krosa once— or at least I think that was her name. She was a survivor— a fighter, just like you.”_

_“Krosa,” she says again. “Can you try calling me by it?”_

_“Of course, Krosa,” Nazir says as he ruffles her hair, and Krosa smiles._

* * *

Krosa frowns. Why does the memory make her smile but tear her heart to shreds? Why did he bother giving her a name if he knew he was going to sell her to the Alik'r? Did he actually care for her at first? _Did I do something that made him stop?_

“ _You’re weak. You always were._ ”

“ _Who would want someone as pathetic as you?_ ”

“ _You were only useful. A tool in his hands. If you sided with Alduin, you would rule over men like him. You would be a master, not a slave.”_

_“They fear you, that is why they are determined to tear you apart and use your fears and flaws against you to do it. Their words are hollow and worthless. Do not listen.”_

Tears sting her eyes, and she wipes them away quickly, doing her best to shove their voices out of her mind. Unsuccessfully. Her heart beats wildly in her chest when she decides what she wants to do and her heart nearly bursts when the words escape her lips.

“You said you can teach me how to stop them from talking?” The sound of her voice aloud startles her, and she quickly reprimands herself. The last thing she needs is Delphine to think she’s crazy for talking to herself. The dragon only smiles, and Krosa barely gets the chance to register the fact that she can see its face before it speaks.

_“I can teach you far more than that.”_

  
  
  
  


  
  
  
  
  
  



	7. With Friends Like These

Hegathe. A decade later and it looks exactly the same. Nazir hates every bit of it. All this place brought him was pain and misery.

The golden glow of the sandstone buildings in the sun reminds him of his failure, of the money he owed— and the color of her eyes. They had been one of the first things he had noticed: red hair of all shades is common enough in High Rock and Skyrim, but eyes like that are rarely seen. 

It must be a sign of something, he had thought; Redguards have always been more on the superstitious side. He should have made the connection sooner, but he was blindsided by the fierceness in her gaze and her struggle to survive. The fire in her eyes burned brighter than the fire claiming her home. He saw himself reflected in them, and the only thing he could do was help.

Why did he ever think he was capable of that? It was so against everything he had known. Everything he was taught. Everything he hates about himself. It all originated _here_. He only returned for Krosa’s sake. 

* * *

_“Nazir!” the giant of a man states, clapping him on the back. “I was beginning to wonder if I’d ever see your face again, my friend!”_

_“It’s about time I worked off that debt I owe you, don’t you think?”_

_“I was starting to worry about that as well. You disappeared before I could name my price.”_

_“I was taken by Corsairs.”_

_“Corsairs don’t ‘take’ men.”_

_“This one did, and he was a fine one, if you catch my drift.”_

_Vander laughs, a great bellowing sound that startles all those in proximity. Nazir ignores the hair standing on end at the nape of his neck: dealing with Vander could turn into a dangerous game if what he’s heard is true, but it could also have many benefits. Safety from both criminals and city officials is only one of them. Nazir only hopes their long history can make up for any grievances. Friendships built in the midst of war tend to be stronger— or so he’s heard._

_When Vander is done laughing, he wipes tears away from his eyes and says, “I forgot you were such a riot. I suppose I can find some use for you.”_

_“There’s one more thing. I have a child with me who needs food and shelter.”_

_“What use do I have for a child?”_

_“Nothing yet, but I’ve been training her. She’s quite the fighter and fearless enough to steal from the pocket of a war general in broad daylight. But she will only work with me. And, when she isn’t with me, I need your word that she will be treated right. I want her to have as close to a normal life as I can give her. Add her needs to the debt I already owe you, and I will not refuse you anything.”_

_“When did you get so soft?”_

_“Since she came along, but only when it comes to her. You don't have to worry.”_

_“Hmm,” Vander says hums, stroking his beard as he considers the proposal._

* * *

Nazir was a fool to trust him, to believe in friendship. He never could have known just how different Vander grew to be after the war. War changes people, but that is no real excuse. It only brings out who a person truly is. Some people come out as heroes :worthy of respect, honor, and praise. Vander came out a monster, and Nazir a coward. If only he didn’t pretend to be anything other than that.

* * *

Krosa stares up at the dragon skull, wondering why she didn’t notice it earlier. She had heard something about some sort of dragon fight happening here, which is where the name Dragonsreach came from, but she always thought it was just a story. Even after knowing dragons are real, it’s still hard to believe. Afterall, the castle is mostly made out of wood.

It’s only been a day since Delphine and Krosa arrived in Whiterun. The whole trip ended up taking a week— something Delphine bitched about the whole way. Krosa is glad Delphine was the only thing she had to listen to. That nameless dragon really came through: there are no voices, and even her nightmares are more manageable now. However, the distance she initially tried to put between herself and the dragon dwindled rather quickly.

_“Was he a friend of yours?”_

_“If he was, I can’t remember.”_

_“Do dragons keep trophies like this?”_

_“We don’t need to prove ourselves so artlessly.”_

Flashes of destruction bombard Krosa, images of fire and screams. People in chains. The very sight of her sparks fear in their eyes. Flying through the air, powerful wings beating against the sky as she goes higher and higher, people, cities, and mountains getting smaller and smaller—

“Do you like it?” Krosa flinches and turns to see Balgruuf coming her way. 

“No,” she states, and Balgruff laughs as he comes to a stop beside her.

“It used to only be a decoration— a reminder of greatness. Now people are either comforted or repulsed by it.”

“Comforted?” Krosa asks. _How in the world would anyone be comforted by_ that?

“Seeing it reminds them that dragons can be defeated. It gives them hope, and hope is in short supply. Word of the Dragonborn’s appearance has only just started to spread,” Balgruuf says, admiring the skull like a trophy. 

_“One that he did not win,”_ the dragon comments, and Krosa rolls her eyes, even if she does agree that the swelling pride in Balgruuf’s eyes is ridiculous. The dragon’s disdain certainly is, even if there is more merit behind it.

“Do you know the story behind this one?” the Jarl asks, taking a seat on his throne.

“I don’t want to hear it. You should destroy it before—”

The Jarl waves her off. “What happened in Falkreath won’t happen here, I assure you. A skull is only a piece, and a small one considering a dragon’s size. The rest of it was taken to High Hrothgar, and Alduin would not dare go there.”

“I didn’t see any dragon remains there,” Krosa says, remembering the distinct lack of decorations in the cold gray halls. Even their library was shabby— though it was filled to the brim with ancient books and scrolls. Krosa suggested to Delphine they go there as well, since they are bound to not only have more information— but more correct information. Delphine wouldn’t hear it, even before their attempt to retrieve Esbern.

“I’m sure you didn’t,” the Jarl responds as a servant comes in with a tray of food and a bottle of mead. “It was a long time ago and the Greybeards are not ones for extravagance.” He thanks the servant and starts eating.

“Just to be safe—”

“Need I remind you that _I_ am the Jarl here,” the Jarl says, voice booming through the hall. “ _And_ I have extensive knowledge on the subject,” he adds, the volume of his voice turning down a notch, but the overbearing tone remains. “Your concern is noted and appreciated, but I will not stand to be doubted so gracelessly. It is only your first day as Thane, after all.”

_“Stand your ground.”_

“Fine. Have it your way,” Krosa says with a shrug. She didn’t even want the title in the first place, but he insisted there was no other way. And she would have said it, Thane or not. One thing Krosa can get used to that comes with the Thane title, is the allowance. She gets paid for being a Thane, regardless if she gets anything noteworthy done. If she had known that previously, she may have been more open to the idea.

The Jarl has apparently already lost interest in their conversation, and says nothing in return before going back to eating. So, Krosa leaves, glad she has her own money to spend after so long without it. She can feel the dragon’s disappointment as she turns to leave.

_“It was a losing battle.”_

_“Only because you allowed it to be. His knowledge comes from books and feeds on the pride and blindness of men. Yours comes from the source, not to mention you have more power than he.”_

_“But he has more authority.”_

_“They can be one and the same if you wield it right.”_

Krosa pretends she didn’t hear him and makes her way to the city square. Despite the overall grayness and chill, Whiterun is as lively and colorful as ever. And while it may be far from being as pretty as some sights Krosa’s seen, it’s comforting at the very least. Far better than the halls of Dragonsreach. She doesn’t know why that is.

The Bannered Mare is a place she should avoid. Too many people spend their time there and Krosa hates how loud it gets, but right now it’s the closest option for food. And food is something she needs desperately at the moment, as is a breath of fresh air. She can’t train, she can’t leave the city, she hates shopping, and she can’t read. Well, she can, but not as well as Delphine would like. So, all that’s left for her to do is eat. 

Stabbing a knife into a slab of meat may not be the full experience of what she wants to do right now, but it will at least scratch the itch. And fill her stomach.

* * *

The archives of Dragonsreach are larger and far more grand than she imagined. All the Blades had was a cramped room and falling-apart books. Even records from over fifty years ago are in immaculate shape for their age. Esbern would have loved it, had he ever visited— maybe he did at one point, but the Jarl has no recollection of it; Farengar’s eyes suggest he may know something, but Delphine knows better than to ask.

“Do you not think you were a little harsh on her?” Farengar asks, and Delphine turns the page before giving him a look. 

“I say it how it is.”

“No, you say what you think. There _is_ a difference.” 

“You haven’t spent days with her,” Delphine mutters, remembering the waves of agitation and turmoil wafting off Krosa. Whatever happened in Riverwood was eating at her. Delphine only hopes that whatever it was won’t affect their goal. And if it was only a personal matter, then Krosa needs to get her act together. They have a world to save, dragons to slay, and the Thalmor to destroy.

“Actually, I have,” Farengar says as he places another pile of books onto the table. “And she was far more pleasant than you have ever been.”

“Is that the last of it?” Delphine asks, eyeing the pillars of books and scattered candles. 

“It is.”

“Good. Then you can leave.” Delphine immediately refocuses on her work, not wanting to waste one more second on such ridiculousness. If Krosa’s worth her weight, she can handle a few harsh truths.

If Esbern were here this would be done in a week. Since she has to do it alone, it will take at least a month— more if she comes across particularly challenging texts. Her grasp on Old Norse and Akaviri are shaky at best. All Blades were required to know their written form at the very least, and Delphine did her duty. But now she’s fallen out of practice and is a stranger to what was once familiar. 

“This is for you,” a voice says, a letter falling into her lap, and Delphine looks up in time to see a servant leaving. She glares at their back. She had told the Jarl no one was allowed to know she was here— much less enter. After taking a look at the handwriting, she changes her tune. Malborn has finally gotten back to her.

* * *

“Hey! Yer in my seat!” a drunken voice says from behind Krosa. Krosa turns to see a young woman in leather and fur armor scowling at her, arms crossed. She reminds Krosa of a child throwing a temper tantrum and wonders again why Nords like getting so drunk.

“No, I’m not,” Krosa says, and the girl has the gall to look affronted. 

“Are you calling me, a _Companion_ , a liar?"

“Maybe you’re just mistaken,” Krosa says, not wanting to engage in any form of verbal or physical fight— which is clearly what the drunkard wants— but she’s also not willing to back down so easily.

“Oh yeah? That’s my tankard right there,” the girl says with a hiccup, finger pointing to the tankard sitting at the spot next to Krosa’s. Krosa grabs the tankard and places it in her hands.

“There. Now go find somewhere else to sit.” 

The woman stands there stupidly for a moment, looking at the tankard in her hands as if it appeared out of thin air. “Hey! You drank all of it!” she exclaims, turning it upside down and shaking it to prove her point.

“No, I d—” Krosa doesn’t have time to finish.

The woman lashes out at her with a wild fist. Krosa doesn’t know if it’s her drunkenness or if the woman was already a terrible fighter. It takes Krosa a single, swift movement to catch the Companion’s fist and pin it behind her; Krosa slams the woman against the bar, Krosa’s barely touched plate clattering to the floor.

The woman struggles, but Krosa keeps a firm grip. “Try that again and—”

A strangled cry from across the tavern interrupts her. _What in the—_ she turns just in time to see a male Dunmer running towards them. Krosa dodges his attack before throwing him across the room. He falls onto an unoccupied table, and the Inn grows quiet. The girl lunges at Krosa again, but is intercepted by someone else who enters the fray.

“Njada, Athis! That’s enough!” the man says, and the girl struggles in his hold.

“But she—” the woman starts, pointing an accusatory finger at Krosa. The man doesn’t even look Krosa’s way.

“You’re not full-fledged Companions yet. It can still be revoked before the ceremony.” The two exchange nervous glances. “Should I remove you like the embarrassments you are or will you walk out with whatever dignity you have left?”

“Alright, alright, we’re leaving,” the Dunmer says, looking stunned as he gets up. He gives Krosa a weird look as he heads for the door, and the girl sticks her tongue out at Krosa before following.

The man sighs, then turns to her. “I apologize for their behavior.” 

“It’s fine,” Krosa says, ignoring the looks and whispers of the other customers. _Maybe I should just leave._ She can find food elsewhere.

“No, no, no. Please, stay,” the barkeep says, setting down a new plate of food to replace the one lost in the fight. It’s piled higher than before, and it looks like one of the more expensive meals. Krosa takes a seat, hating her weakness. “Show’s over,” the barkeep calls out to the Inn, and Krosa refuses to look over her shoulder at them.

“Thanks,” she says, before digging in. The barkeep nods before turning to the man.

“Vilkas, this is the second time this month they’ve caused a disturbance.” 

“And they will be punished for it. It won’t happen again.” The man gives the barkeep a small handful of coins. “I’ll have what she’s having.”

Krosa frowns as he sits down next to her. When he opens his mouth to say something, Krosa says, “Don’t talk to me.”

“I just wanted to say you handled yourself well… and wanted to thank you for not maiming them.”

“That counts as talking.”

The man smirks. “And people say I’m rough around the edges.”

Krosa ignores him and continues scarfing down her food. When his food arrives he does the same, though he is far more graceless than Krosa has ever been. His meat is mostly pink and red droplets ooze from it. Krosa looks away before she loses her appetite. She always preferred her meat slightly charred.

_“There’s wolf blood in him.”_

_“What?”_

_“Focus on your senses. When you look at him, don’t just look, but feel and smell, the smell is the most obvious—”_

“Is there a reason you’re looking at me like that?”

“No, of course not. Lost in thought, I am— I mean—” Krosa shakes her head, hating herself immensely. “Um—”

“Come with me. I’ve thought of a way to make you useful,” a voice says from behind.

“I hope it wasn’t too hard for you,” Krosa says, not wanting Delphine to know that, for once, she’s grateful for her presence. After all, it likely won’t last very long.

“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that,” Delphine says, turning to head out the door. “I’ll wait outside.”

Krosa sighs before getting up to follow. 

“Who pissed in her drink?” the man asks, and Krosa summons the smallest twitch of a smile. 

“She’s always like that.”

“I guess that explains your poor mood.”

“I’m always in a bad mood,” Krosa says, hoping he gets the hint. _At least I finished most of my food_ , Krosa thinks, but she still gives her plate one last look of longing before turning for the door.

“Hey,” the man says, getting out of his seat and lightly touching her arm, “can I get your name?” 

“No.” His eyebrows shoot up. “Sorry. I just— No. I need to go.” And go she does— as quickly as she’s able. 

_“I hate you.”_

_“It’s not my fault you are less than inadequate when conversing with those of your own species.”_

_“I still hate you.”_

_“Then stop talking to me.”_

Krosa hopes that whatever Delphine plans, it includes slashing at somebody with a sword. She spots Delphine across the square in the only spot not crowded with people. When Krosa reaches her, she asks, “What is it?”

“I’m sending you to the Thalmor Embassy.”

* * *

“And you’re really going to do this?” Vex asks after barging into the room. 

“I promised her a favor, lass, and this is what she asked for. So yes, _I am doing this,”_ he says, shoving the last of his things into his pack. 

Maven already left the day before, and Brynjolf is glad he won’t have to ride with her the whole way. He isn’t even allowed to talk to her or mention his name when he does get there. Vex follows him out of the room, and he locks it behind them, looking at her pointedly.

“What did Mercer say?” she asks when he turns to leave.

“He and Maven worked out the arrangements and they only think I will be there to lift some jewelry and information, so don’t tell anyone anything else.” 

“Bryn—”

“It’s not like I’ll be missed here,” he says just as they enter the Cistern. Ever since the raid, most of the Guild barely talks to him or looks his way. They all blame him for it, and with that blame comes the blame of the Guild failing. Vex maneuvers her way in front of him, stopping him in his tracks.

“Don’t be a baby. People get upset, it’ll blow over. Everybody knows you do more for the Guild than anyone.”

“Careful Vex, or I’ll start to think that you have a heart,” Brynjolf says as he shoulders past her.

“I have _sense_ , Brynjolf, nothing more.” Brynjolf makes it to the ladder. “Will you at least take someone with you?”

“Maven only has one extra invitation,” Brynjolf says. _And it was supposed to be for her husband._ He only wonders how that went down, though any man unlucky enough to marry Maven would probably be grateful for the relief of her absence.

“You men are pathetic. All this just to get laid?”

Brynjolf rolls his eyes. She’s grasping at strings now. It’s nice to know she cares, but nothing will sway him from this. If Ysolt had asked him to steal all the Jarl’s crowns, he’d do it just for the sake of doing something. He smirks at the thought of it. Now he does kind of want to try it. But to Vex, he only says, “No. I already got laid. I made a promise and now I’m fulfilling it.”

“Fine.” Vex shrugs, “Whatever. If you die I’ll spit on your grave and say ‘I told you so.’”

“Lass, if I die there likely won’t be a grave to do that on. You’ll probably never even get to see the body,” Brynjolf says, though imagining her doing that brings a smile to his face. It’s even better when he pictures her drunk as well.

“You’re an ass.”

“Yes, I do have a nice ass, and you’re welcome to leer at it as I leave.”

“I hate you!” she calls up to him.

“No you don’t!”

* * *

_“And that’s how I could learn from them?”_

_“Yes, but I would not do so if I were you.”_

_“Why not?”_

_“You could lose yourself in the process. Your hold on them is new, and your understanding of yourself is shaky at best.”_

“Are you going to buy something or are you going to stand there and stare at the wall all day?”

“Sorry— I— Maybe you could help… me,” Krosa says, cringes, then tries again. “I need help.”

“You won’t find the kind of help you need here,” the woman sneers. 

“I’m going to a party—”

“At the Embassy?” Krosa nods. “Well, why didn’t you _say_ so?” the woman asks, tone changing drastically as she moves Krosa through the store. "“We have the largest collection of dresses and fabrics, imported from the very best seamstresses across Tamriel. I have _personally_ dressed several of the guests, including Vittoria Vici herself, for the party—”

The woman goes on and on, Krosa struggling to pretend she’s even remotely interested. When it becomes apparent that Krosa has no skill in choosing the right apparel for such an occasion, the woman takes over, holding several dresses up to Krosa’s face. Krosa shuts her mouth through all of it, hoping it won’t last long, but when she notices there’s nothing in the pile but dresses, Krosa speaks up.

“Is it possible for me to not wear a dress?”

“Is it possible for pigs to fly?” the woman sneers, ”What kind of question is that? Now go try it on before I force it on you!” Krosa does as she says.

 _“You’re really going to let her order you around?”_ the dragon asks, and Krosa curses herself for forgetting to block him out. _“How do you plan to confront Alduin when—”_

_“That’s different. Leave me alone.”_

_“She’s more of a dragon than you are.”_

Krosa blocks him out as she puts the dress on, struggling with it more than she should. Apparently, the laces on the back need to be undone first and stepping into it works better than trying to put it on over her head. _Why are dresses so damned difficult?_ The only positive she can think of dresses is the ability to hide weapons, which she can’t do anyway. At least, not until she’s in the Embassy.

When Krosa finally has the dress on, she steps out, refusing to look in the mirror first.

“Oh, I did it again. The dress looks marvelous,” the woman sighs contentedly, before getting back to business, “But you, on the other hand...” She reaches for Krosa’s hair.

“Hey—”

“Do you even _own_ a hairbrush? And _look_ at those eyebrows! When was the last time you had a proper bath? Have you ever looked in a mirror? And— is there dye in your hair?” the woman sighs, looking longingly at a red lock of hair Krosa must have missed before.

“The dye stays,” Krosa says when the woman starts rubbing the dye away, leaving no room in her tone for disagreement. The woman drops her hair and steps back and looks Krosa over a second time.

“You’re a walking disaster.”

“I know,” Krosa says. _I have been for a while._

The woman sighs again, looking Krosa up and down one last time.

“How much money are you willing to spend?”

“Whatever’s in here,” Krosa says, putting the coin purse she got as Thane on the counter. The woman opens it, greed sparking in her eyes.

"There's hope for you yet."

"You can do whatever, I don't care, but I refuse to wear anything that will make me stand out. Or does this," Krosa says, pointing to the contraption of a dress she's wearing.

"First of all, darling, if you think that dress will get you noticed at a party like this, you're fooling yourself. And secondly, there's nothing wrong with a little sparkle. But, I suppose I can work within those terms. Everyone needs a good challenge now and then,” the woman says, flitting about the room, as she throws more dresses on the pile and hanging some back up. “Now, we have lots to do and very little time. For future reference, people usually have their orders in at least weeks in advance and do not come in to browse the day of. The exception will cost you.”

Krosa was only half paying attention, so she only says, “Alright.”

“Good, now give me a minute to bring some others in, and we’ll have you ready in no time.”

* * *

Krosa leaves the shop, feeling like a plucked chicken, and despite particular orders not to, she finds herself touching— the dress, her face, her hair, her _eyebrows_. She feels like a completely different person. Not once in her life has she worn makeup, and somehow they managed to hide most of her facial scars. The dye they used to fix her hair only diluted the red, making it more of a reddish-brown than the almost black color she had previously. 

The hairstyle took most of the time, and the women ignored her when she said to just leave it. Now, Krosa only has an hour left to make it to the party. Despite the crunch on time, Krosa finds herself almost running for the inn to throw on pants under the dress, deciding the comfort of knowing they’re there is better than the discomfort of having them there.

She flies out of the room, hoping she won’t miss the last cart ride to the Embassy. Arriving on horseback would draw attention to herself, and that is something Krosa needs to avoid at all costs. In her hurry, she fails to stop in time when someone walks right into her path. 

  
  
  
  
  
  



	8. A Symphony of Bad Ideas

The impact sends her reeling, and Krosa’s certain the man crashes into a wall. Recovery would have been smoother if not for the dress and cobblestone streets. She falls over, pebbles digging painfully into her hands.

“Krosa?” the man says, and Krosa freezes before looking up and into familiar green eyes, cursing every god she knows the name of.

“ I— What—  _ What _ —” 

“You look, um—" Brynjolf starts and Krosa’s glad she’s not the only one struggling with words, but he clears his throat quickly, saying, “Are you going to the Embassy, lass?” 

Krosa’s face falls. His asking could only mean one thing, and he’s certainly dressed for it. 

“Should I take that look of disappointment as yes?” he asks, and it’s only then does she realize she never answered his question. But she hardly cares at the moment.

_ This could ruin everything _ , Krosa tells herself, refusing to acknowledge his skills are well-suited for what she’s here for. She is not prepared for this: it wasn’t part of the plan. He could get her caught and—  _ and _ he'll be insufferably friendly and apologetic and  _ helpful _ ; she doesn't want to deal with any of it.

“I don’t have time for this,” Krosa says, getting up and turning to leave.

“I assume that means you’re also trying to catch the last cart ride.”

That brings Krosa to a stop. Of course. Of course,  _ of course _ , of course.  _ Can I ever catch a break? _ “I can’t believe this is happening,” she mutters to herself, hand going to her temple to try and hold back the oncoming headache.

“Nor can I… I never thought I’d see you in a dress, lass," he says, and Krosa wonders if it's his attempt at humor. "And everything else is so— well, nevermind.” 

Krosa gives him one last look before resuming her vigorous pace. While she would like to break into a run, it’d be pointless: she’d only look like a fool.  _ Unless he doesn't make it in time.  _ It's tempting… but it's not worth it. Rather than focusing on the man behind her, she turns her thoughts to the city instead, hoping it will help calm whatever is rippling through her.

The streets are mostly empty, as is the sky. The only lights come from the street lanterns, and Krosa hopes it won’t be just the two of them on the carriage.

Brynjolf doesn’t say anything, but he’s only a few steps behind her. And she’s  _ painfully _ aware of that fact. He has to ruin everything.

It doesn’t take long for them to make it to the stables, and her brief relief is quickly replaced when she notices that no one else is there. She’s stuck with him. A new string of curses tumble to the forefront of her mind as they climb on, Krosa trying to sit as far away as possible without seeming too pathetic.

Krosa looks longingly at the carts ahead of them in the distance. He could have been on any one of those. If that damned woman from the shop had gone just a little quicker Krosa could have been on one of them. Why was  _ he _ running late? Was it on purpose? Did he follow her here? She studies him out of the corner of her eye, trying to figure it out.

“So," he says, fumbling with his hands, "it’s a nice night for—”

“Please don’t make this worse than it already is.” It hits him like she hoped it would, and he stops talking. She shoves down the nagging part of her that feels bad about it. This is not something she—

_ “Why are you so scared of him?” _

_ “I’m not scared. Go away.” _

“Lass—” Brynjolf says and her gut twists painfully. 

“I don’t want to hear it,” she says, crossing her arms and studying the dark landscape around them, only barely able to make out the shapes of trees and mountains in the distance. It’ll grow old soon, but Krosa doesn’t know what else to do.

“You’re still mad?”

“What do you think?” Krosa asks, though she wishes she didn’t say anything. Brynjolf surprises her when he doesn’t reply. She sneaks a glance at him to see him fumbling with his hands, brows furrowed. Something tugs in her chest.

_ "I do not understand." _

_ "Don't lose your mind over it." _

* * *

The wagon creaks and groans as it bumps and rattles down the road, filling the silence between them. Several minutes go by and Brynjolf still doesn't know what to say. Not knowing what to say is a rare occurrence, and Brynjolf found recently that only happens when dealing with Krosa. More than anything, he wishes he had the foresight to bring the letter he wrote. 

It's hard to believe it's even Krosa sitting across from him. The red of her hair is muted and pulled back from her face in some kind of knot, and makeup covers the scattered scars on her face. It would be hard to tell her apart from any of the other women bound to be there. But her eyes are the same, and he knows that look of irritation and discomfort: it’s the same trademark expression he's grown accustomed to, even if the tinted lips are rather distracting

Brynjolf is glad she seems preoccupied with whatever’s on her mind, so she doesn’t notice his prolonged stares. He tries not to, he really does. The fact that the silky fabric of her dress peeks out below her cloak is no help. It’s almost impossible not to let his imagination wander, though he believes he’s mostly successful at it.

He's pulled from his battle when Krosa speaks, "I don’t have a lot, Brynjolf. But what I do have is important to me, and they are  _ all  _ I have. They are all I’ve ever had.”

Well. That's unexpected.

“I truly am sorry, lass," he says, hoping this means she’s less guarded and more open to explanation. "I— I guess I’m not used to respecting people’s privacy. I was treating you more like a question— or a target, I guess, rather than a friend. I realize that now.”

Krosa nods her head slowly, biting her bottom lip. Her fingers tap a relentless rhythm on her arm and it becomes increasingly difficult to stay silent.

“If it makes you feel any better, you’re just as withholding in your journal as you are in conversation. I didn’t learn much.”

Krosa only gives him a look.

“Is there any way I can make it up to you or— or even the playing field?” he asks, and the tapping stops, replaced with a glare.

“This isn’t a game.”

“I know that,” Brynjolf says quickly. “I just— I couldn’t think of any other way to put it.” Another rare occurrence that happens quite often in her presence. 

“Is there a  _ reason _ you’re so intent on winning me over?” she asks, voice full of accusation. Brynjolf only sighs deeply, trying to shrug off any irritation. 

“I believe we’ve already had that conversation, lass. I like you. That’s all there is to it.” She breaks his gaze after a moment of consideration, and Brynjolf sighs.

While it’s not entirely untrue, there  _ is _ more to it— Brynjolf just doesn’t know what else there is. He wonders if it’s the same with her, the feeling of some sort of connection between them, or at least wanting to feel it. It’s one or the other, but he still doesn’t know which it truly is.

“Why are you here?” she asks, shocking him from his thoughts. It seems she’s full of surprises tonight, and the night is only just beginning. He hopes it’s a good sign of progress and not a sign things can only go downhill from here.

“A favor for someone,” he says, and the suspicion in her gaze deepens.

“For who?”

“If I answer that, will you tell me why you’re here?” It’s a long shot, but worth a try. He sees Krosa hesitate, then slowly and surely shrink into herself.

“No.”

The fact that she sounds almost regretful astounds him. Whatever’s been going on in her life seems to have drained her. She seems skinnier than before, and there’s something about the look in her eyes and the heaviness in her shoulders. A minute passes, then another before Brynjolf makes up his mind. 

“It’s for Ysolt— the priestess who healed you—” he starts, but Krosa perks up.

“Wait. Did she charge something? She told me not to worry about it.”  _ Shit.  _

“Then don’t worry about it,” he says with a shrug, avoiding her probing eyes.

“Bryn—”

“We’re here,” the cart driver says, and they both turn to see the Embassy looming on the side of the mountain, a brilliant light in the darkness around them. Brynjolf finds it ironic… though maybe it’s not so far-fetched. Tonight may just be a better night than he thought it would be, if the past hour was anything to go by.

Krosa abandons him as soon as they enter, and Brynjolf lets her go without another word. It’s not likely that she’s here for leisure, and he knows any interference is likely to end in disaster. So he spends his time flirting, stealing, and dancing as planned. Accomplishing Ysolt’s favor was pitifully easy, and while the information may not be what she’d want to hear, snagging her family heirloom should make up for it.

_ The Thalmor really know how to throw a party,  _ Brynjolf thinks, surveying the room. They really spared no expense: golden dishes, diamond candlesticks, silk fabrics, intricate designs— all of which, he assumes, is a testament to their wealth and home country.

Or they would be, if they weren’t all fake. All it takes is an eye trained like his to spot the imperfections of the diamonds and the tell-tale signs of something being  _ coated _ in gold, not made of it. Still, the wine is the best he’s had in ages; he only wishes he could stuff some of the bottles in with his collection, but there’s only so much room.

The guests wear fashions from all over Tamriel: some fitting in seamlessly with the elven decor and others contrasting greatly. Elven sentries watch from the walls, mixed with Imperial legionnaires and the occasional Nord in full ceremonial armor. Brynjolf assumes it’s supposed to show the unity of their alliance, but Brynjolf also assumes that no one really buys it.

He heads for the food after a particularly exhausting dance, only to finally catch sight of Krosa and a man who exudes confidence and sleaziness. From his clothes, Brynjolf assumes he’s a noble of some sort, likely from High Rock. The closer Brynjolf gets, the more certain it is that she needs rescue. She looks about ready to murder the man, which would surely ruin whatever she’s trying to do here. Brynjolf’s not going to waste his chance and swoops in.

“Krosa, lass, there you are! I’ve been looking everywhere for you.” He places his hand on her back, and feels her stiffen. “Are you ready for our dance?”

The look she gives him is priceless, but she keeps her mouth shut.

“You’re her escort, then?” the man asks, looking Brynjolf up and down. Brynjolf can see the judgement in his eyes. His clothes may not be the most expensive or fancy, but at least he doesn’t look like a pompous peacock. The man is even wearing a hat made out of the poor creature’s feathers.

“Nords don’t believe in escorts,” Brynjolf says, “a woman may come and go as she chooses.”

The man rolls his eyes. “I had forgotten how uncultured you people are here,” he says as he leaves to find his next victim.

Brynjolf moves in to whisper in Krosa’s ear, “I may be low on your list, lass, but please tell me he’s even lower.

“Congratulations,” Krosa says, sounding rather winded. When she turns to leave, he stops her bye grabbing her arm and pulling her to him.

“Oh no you don’t, lass. We can’t just say we’re going to dance then not dance,” he says playfully, and Krosa gives him a look he assumes was supposed to be a warning. Something’s off about it, but Brynjolf can’t put his finger on what it is.

“I don’t know how to dance,” Krosa says, and he holds back a grin. 

“I can teach you, lass. It’s not hard.”

“I don’t  _ want  _ to dance.” She doesn’t even look at him. Instead, she looks around the room frantically, and Brynjolf’s hand goes to grasp her upper arm in what he hopes will be a comforting gesture. 

“Krosa, are you… feeling alright?”

* * *

“I’m fine. I’m fine, I just—” Krosa takes a deep breath, hand going to her head. She tries to shake him off and run from the room, but she trips on her dress; Brynjolf steadies her, keeping her from making a scene. “Okay, maybe I’m not—” 

The music, the people, the heat— the eyes, the voices, the lights. It’s a whirl of activity and sound. People bumping, laughing, looking,  _ whispering _ . Her arms tingle, her back itches— it’s getting hard to breathe. 

“ _ Something’s wrong,”  _ the dragon says, and Krosa loathes the worry in his voice. _ “I think you’re—” _

_ “I’m fine, I just—” _

Voices distort as the room swirls, colors and shadows slithering around like snakes. Her heart throbs, jerking painfully in her chest. 

She needs to leave— she  _ needs _ to—

Fresh air hits her then, along with a chilling breeze, and Krosa breathes it in greedily. She’s on a balcony, and when the warmth on her back moves, she turns to see Brynjolf looking at her with concern.

“What happened?” she asks, trying to regain her senses.

“I don’t know, but you seemed sick. I thought some fresh air might help.”

Her stomach still clenches painfully, heart racing impossibly fast, head reeling. But the cold feels nice, and if she focuses on that, the rest of it seems bearable. Brynjolf leads her to the railing, and Krosa falls to her knees. 

“Thanks. It was getting… hot and it’s hard to breathe in this thing and—” Whatever her stomach’s doing isn’t helping.

Brynjolf comes to her, crouching down to her level, hand on her shoulder. Krosa hopes the makeup hides her flaming face. “You don’t have to explain yourself, lass. Let me know when you’re ready.”

He stands and moves to the other end of the balcony, giving her some much needed space. There are several moments where she thinks she may expel the contents of her stomach over the railing. Tentatively, she reaches out with her mind to the dragon. He was going to say something— he may know how to help. But the dragon stays silent, and Krosa forces herself to take several deep, steadying breaths before pulling herself slowly to her feet. When she’s sure she can handle the worst of the pain, she turns to Brynjolf.

“Alright. I’m ready to go back in. Thanks again for— well, this,” Krosa says, gesturing to the balcony sheepishly.

“Don’t mention it, lass,” he says, holding the door open for her. “If you’re not up for dancing, what do you suggest we do?”

Krosa considers it, hating that she is, but he’s earned a little trust… and maybe she has been a little hard on him. With her body betraying her like this, a little help could make all the difference— not to mention the fact that whatever social skills she lacks, he has in abundance. Trying to convince anyone else to do this would have gone poorly at the very least. Krosa sighs. 

“I need to get through the door behind the bar. Can you cause a distraction?”

“You can’t just use an invisibility spell, lass?”

“The room is covered with wards. Any attempt at spellcasting would be noticed, and a distraction would still be needed. I can’t risk anyone seeing me.”

“Does it have to be that door, lass?”

“Why?” Krosa asks, cataloguing all the things she gave to Malborn in her head. It’s nothing she’ll miss. Her sword and armor are still at her room in the Winking Skeever, though going in without weapons could be disastrous. Brynjolf surveys the balcony, peeking over the railing and at the walls of the monstrous building. 

“I may have another idea.”

Krosa knows what he’s thinking. It’s a terrible idea, but she likes it more than Delphine’s plan. She doesn’t particularly trust Malborn, and there’s less chance of being spotted. If they can make it all the way to the back courtyard, she won’t have to try and remember the map Malborn drew for her. However, there is one problem...

* * *

“Don’t tell me you’re scared of heights, lass,” Brynjolf says when he sees her hesitation.

“I’m not. But in this—” Krosa says, looking down at the skirts of her dress before bending down and ripping the front of it. Brynjolf is speechless— but only for a moment.

“Krosa, what in the name of— are those trousers?” They  _ are _ trousers, and Brynjolf’s hand flies to cover his mouth, because on her feet are a pair of fur-lined black boots, and there’s no going back from this. “It’s no wonder you were overheating,” he mumbles, struggling to keep a straight face. This was  _ not _ the reaction he expected. 

Krosa ignores him as she continues to utterly destroy the dress, before twisting and tying it all together to create some form of toga-like shirt. It’s not a terrible look, but definitely in need of refinement.

“There. That should work,” she says, expecting her work.

“Alright then, let’s get to it,” Brynjolf says, stifling his rising disappointment. He liked how she looked in that dress. Not to mention the plan might not work and the possibility of having to go with her original one. He decides not to mention either point.  _ At least she likes the idea,  _ he muses, _ and there’s dedication for you. _

After telling her to let him go first, he starts to see all the flaws in this plan. The wind beats sharply against them, the frigid air stiffens his fingers, and the cold, slickness of the stone makes their whole path even more treacherous than it already was. The fact that he’s weighed down by a shitload of jewelry is no help either. The only light is from the dimness of Krosa’s floating orb, and the only warmth is from his own breath.  _ Why didn’t she try talking me out of this?  _

When they reach a section of the wall completely encased by ice, Brynjolf turns to her, about to say they need to turn back. But she speaks up before he does.

“I’ve got this. Don’t move.”

Brynjolf says nothing as she maneuvers her way around him, glad that the cold freezes all thought and feeling. It takes longer than he’d like, but soon she’s on the other side. He rests his head against a cold stone— ready to start praying if that’s what it takes to get out of this stupid,  _ stupid  _ situation. But then he feels a wave of heat and turns to see Krosa melting the ice with magic. He should have let her go first.

The rest of the way is relatively easy— the stone still warm from Krosa’s magic. The fence, however, is another matter entirely. They both nearly tumble to the drifts of snow hundreds of feet below, but somehow manage to heave themselves over the fence without impaling themselves. They lay in a heap on the ground, trying to catch their breath.

“You’re crazy, lass. I cannot  _ believe  _ you went through with this,” he breathes only as loudly as he dares.

“It was  _ your  _ idea.” She shoves him, and he gets to his knees, 

“Yes, a terrible one!” he exclaims, still in a whisper; his hands fly to his head, ready to tear his hair out. “There was nothing wrong with your original plan!”

“Then why did you suggest it?”

“It was a possible course of action, so I mentioned it. You were the one who started ripping your dress like a lunatic.”

She huffs, crossing her arms. “I don’t see the problem here. It worked, didn’t it?” Brynjolf doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry. He always assumed she was more cautious than this. He saw his whole life flash before his eyes. Several times. 

Krosa holds her hand out to him, and it takes a few seconds for him to realize why. Brynjolf takes it, and she pulls him to his feet. 

“Aye, lass, I suppose it did,” he says, letting go of her hand.

“Do you hear that?” Krosa asks, whipping her head to the side.

“Hear wh—” Her hand covers his mouth, and she drags him to the safety of the wall. Just then, a Thalmor guard turns the corner, a light floating in his hand. The guard looks right at them, and Brynjolf nearly leaps into action, but Krosa keeps him rooted firmly in the spot. The guard’s gaze sweeps past them.

“Do you see anything?” 

“No. Must have been the wind.” They stay like that for several seconds after the guard leaves.  _ Well. That just happened. _ Krosa releases him and sinks into a crouch, head falling into her hands.

“Are you alright, lass?”

“Yeah. That just took a lot out of me.” 

“I didn’t know mages could do that.”

“It takes a lot of concentration and Savos told me that only those gifted with a deeper connection to magic are able to do feats like that. Any of the Thalmor here can probably do it, and they wouldn’t get light-headed from it.”

“Savos, the Archmage of Winterhold’s mage college?” Brynjolf asks, and she nods before rising to her feet. “You’re just full of surprises today, lass.” Not only is she almost friendly, but she’s  _ chatty _ .

“Blame the adrenaline. Let’s get moving.”

* * *

Krosa knew sneaking around the Embassy would be difficult, but there are far more guards crawling around the courtyard than Malborn said there would be. Far more than there was in the ballroom. It’s almost as if they were expecting trouble. Krosa let Brynjolf take the lead while Krosa erases their tracks. They don’t dare speak— even a whisper could give them away in the wrong moment.

Instead, they use hand signals which work well enough, though there are times when Krosa’s not sure what he’s trying to say. Right now, he’s signaling her to slit a guard’s throat, and she hesitates for a moment not sure if it’s the wisest course of action, but he hasn’t led her wrong yet. So she does just that.

The guard goes down quickly and quietly; Krosa catching him before he hits the ground and dragging him to the shadows.

“What’d you do that for, lass?” Brynjolf asks as soon as she’s within whispering distance.

“ _ You _ told me to.” 

“That’s not what I meant! I meant the coast is not clear and you should stay where you are!”

“That’s not what it looked like,” Krosa says simply, laying the guard down, noticing then that his eyes are still wide open. Shivers run down her spine, and she closes them immediately. Somehow that doesn't make her feel better. In fact, her stomach clenches painfully, and Krosa is barely able to keep herself from groaning.

“It’s alright,” Brynjolf says, hand sliding down his face. “Okay. We can work with this.” There are several seconds of nothing, and Krosa wonders if he feels as addled as she does. “Put on his armor,” he says finally, and Krosa scowls.

“What? No, you put it on. It’ll be too big for me and I won’t be able to —”

“Well, it’s too small for me and it could come in handy. Just put it on.”

Krosa huffs, rolling her eyes as she does what as he says. Brynjolf helps her, and Krosa tries not to be too distressed by it. If she looked ridiculous before, she probably does even more now. “They’ll never believe it.”

“Not up close. Besides—”

Footsteps crunch in the snow, and they exchange a glance. Krosa hasn’t covered the blood on the snow from her attack. There’s no way it will go unnoticed. Krosa looks to Brynjolf, a question in her gaze. Brynjolf nods.

A few minutes later, they both don ill-fitting elven armor, and Krosa feels a lot better about all of this with a sword strapped to her hip. The only guards are those watching from the other side and seem to be in the middle of a game of sorts. Krosa and Brynjolf leave the shadows, crossing the rest of the way through the courtyard and entering the door to Elenwen’s Solar.

“Shit.” Brynjolf says, echoing Krosa’s thoughts. 


	9. Revelations of a Sort

Alive. Krosa’s alive. Or at least, she had been for some time: time he spent living it up in a glorified cave murdering people when he could have been with her. Nazir doesn’t know what to do with this information. 

It’s been about three years since she left, if the records are anything to go by.  _ Records.  _ Pages and pages of words and numbers, all telling the tale of her life in the Arena.  _ Vander sure worked her for everything she’s worth. _ He made a fortune off of her— significantly more than the debt Nazir was trying to work off.

“She was my favorite competitor,” the keeper’s apprentice states, “betting on her was always exciting. It was impossible to tell if she would win a fight. Well, that’s until she became Grand Champion.”

“How so?” Nazir asks, closing the book after one last look. The dry heat already makes his nose burn, and the dust that flies up to his nose from the book only irritates it, and he has to hold back a sneeze.  _ Void take it, I hate this place. _

“Something changed, and all of a sudden she was unstoppable. The Da’Vam clan was lucky to have her, those bastards.”

“The Da’Vam clan?” he asks innocently.

“Yeah. Probably the most corrupt family to ever grace this city. City officials were always trying to bring them down— those who weren’t in their pocket, at least,” the apprentice states as he puts the book back with the rest. “Word is she was working with the city as a spy of sorts. Explains why they never charged her with murder, though many would contend that sentence anyway. Public service is more like it.”

_ Indeed.  _ All that time waiting for Vander to find him, running and never settling until Astrid saved him, gave him a family— a greatly disturbed group— but a family nonetheless. Krosa had none of that.

“And what happened to the rest of the house?” he asks, knowing the group of Alik’r he killed must have been out there on someone’s orders. “Servants? Distant relations? Friends? Enemies?”

“Oh, the city was in uproar for a while. Many other clans tried claiming the top seat, but ended up taking out themselves in the process. The city guard snuffed out the rest. There’s only a few servants who’ve come forward with what they were really like. Turns out they treated the majority of their servants as slaves, even marking them with a brand as their property.”

The thought of Krosa wearing that mark sickens him. Everything about this place sickens him. He wishes he could find a way to make them suffer. Sithis take him, he would sell his soul to do it.

“Is that all you know?” he asks, barely masking his voice with a storming calm.

The apprentice taps his chin for a moment, before shrugging. “Yeah, why are you so interested in all this?”

“I’m a historian of sorts,” Nazir lies, getting out of his chair and looking around the small, cramped room for the exit.

“Then you should have heard of this, this is old news.”

“I’ve been away,” is all he says before taking his leave. And he can only imagine what went on in his absence. Krosa may not be the same person she was before, she may have come out worse off than even him or Vander. Or maybe she’s broken beyond repair, a shell of what she once was. Or she's dead— lost and forgotten somewhere, and this is all for nothing. Nazir can’t picture it any other way.

There are two things he can do: stay and gather more information while others are out there searching for her, or take the risk of blindly stepping into a plot he knows nothing of. Nazir hopes Astrid really did take Babette’s side and that pathetic excuse of a man still lives. There may be more they can get out of him.

He will not let them get to her first. 

* * *

Brynjolf considers hightailing it out of there. Several Thalmor are scattered throughout the room, just a few short of the amount in the Ratways. They may be able to just walk through unnoticed. The majority of them are facing away; one or two from across the room barely glanced at them when he and Krosa entered. But if anyone tries talking to them the ruse would be blown, and all it would take is a good look to see their ill-fitting armor.

Krosa mutters something under her breath, and the next moment she’s gone. Brynjolf blinks, and the room is decorated with Thalmor bodies strewn all over the place. Some slouch in chairs, others litter on the ground, and one is crumpled against a cracked wall. Krosa is on the opposite end of the room, catching her breath. Brynjolf goes to her.

“What the fu—” 

“Don’t ask.”

“But—”

Krosa shakes her head and straightens. “Come on. We’re wasting—” Her gaze lands somewhere over his shoulder, and Brynjolf turns to see the table filled with platters of food.  _ She can’t be serious.  _ She goes to the table, striding with purpose.

“Don’t tell me you’re going to eat any of it,” Brynjolf says, following her. 

“What? I’m hungry, and they’re not going to eat it,” Krosa says, gesturing to the bodies, eyeing the food like a starved animal.

Brynjolf doesn’t know what to think. “You’re a wonder, lass, that’s for sure.”

And maybe a little more dangerous than he originally anticipated. If she can do spells like this— He looks around the room again.  _ Nocturnal’s bosom, he’s lucky he got off so easy all those times he pissed her off. _ Impressive his  _ ass _ . She’s  _ amazing _ . And maybe a little terrifying. Just looking at her sets his heart racing. 

Brynjolf realizes he’s staring and quickly looks away before realizing she still hasn’t touched any of the food. “You’re not going to grab anything? I thought you said you were hungry.”

“I thought I  _ was  _ hungry, but now—” she drifts off, scrutinizing the food on the table with an odd look on her face. The closest thing Brynjolf can compare it to is disgust. “Now I’m not so sure.”

_ Should I be worried?  _ This whole night she’s been acting strange. He wonders if it has to do with him, and he also wonders if that makes him egotistical for thinking that.  _ But what else could it be? _ Though, to be honest, if he had room he may have tried pocketing some food as well. Especially the sweet rolls. It all looks and smells delicious.

“Well, in any case, lass, we should get moving,” he says, gently steering her towards the stairs. She lets him.

“Yeah.” She shakes her head as if breaking herself from a trance. “Yeah, we should. I’m sorry, I don’t know what that was.”

The halls are empty, and they peer into each room as they go, searching for anything good. He doesn’t know what Krosa's looking for, but he hopes she's not missing anything because she doesn't seem to be paying much attention. Only one of those rooms had an occupant, easily dispatched. 

As they go down a set of stairs, Brynjolf knows they must be reaching the dungeons. Dungeons never do smell pleasant. The next door they open is cluttered with papers and drawers, and a map marked with dozens of little and big black, red, and blue flags. He's seen plenty of offices like this before. And considering the location, he believes he knows just what the office holds. Brynjolf takes a mental picture of the map as he enters and immediately opens a drawer. He grins.

“What is it?” Krosa asks.

“A gold mine, lass.” Brynjolf opens another drawer. And another.

“It’s a bunch of papers.”

“No. It’s information.” Information on all notable people and organizations in Skyrim from the looks of it.  _ They’ve really been doing their homework.  _ And Brynjolf knows exactly how to profit from it. “There was a pack in that last room. Bring it here.”

“Brynjolf—”

“Trust me lass, this won’t be a waste of time.

Krosa huffs then leaves. Brynjolf ignores her, eyes peeled for names he recognizes. Then he sees it— his name, filed with a few others in the Guild, and others he assumes the Thalmor think are associated with them. Brynjolf opens it immediately.

_ ‘Nord. Orange hair, green eyes. Lives in Riften may be a leader of the Thieves Guild and associated with Maven Black-Briar. Not important but likely has information on important people. Only cooperative if there's enough coin as payment.' _

Well, that’s disappointing. Though, flying under the radar is probably a good thing in this case. But he's also never worked exclusively with the Thalmor before.  _ I'll have to be more careful.  _ He puts it in the pile and keeps digging. The next name that catches his eye is Krosa’s. He pulls it out just as Krosa arrives at the door, pack in hand.

“This one’s on you, lass.”

“What?” she asks, rushing to him to look over his shoulder. “Did you read it?” Brynjolf can hear the suspicion laced into her voice. Oh yeah, there’s still  _ that  _ between them. 

He shakes his head. "No, I did not."

She studies him for a moment, then holds out her hand. “Give it to me.”

He hands it over and takes the pack, transferring his pile while she reads. “Anything good?” he asks, turning back to the drawers. He’s only gone through half of them. “Mine was disappointing.”

It takes her a while to answer, but he hardly notices as he continues to search and grab as quickly as he can. Mercer will be more than pleased with all this. Brynjolf only hopes other dossiers are more informative than his own was. Some of them  _ are  _ thicker than others.

“How do they know all this?” Krosa asks, and Brynjolf stops rifling to look up at her. The startled look on her face unsettles him. He’s about to ask what they have on her, before clamping his mouth shut.

"They have spies everywhere," he says instead.

Krosa tucks it away slowly, eyes unfocused and far away. She grabs a paper and pen from the desk.

“What are you doing, lass?”

“Giving you a list of names. I’ll keep watch.” Brynjolf watches her for a moment, before turning back to the drawers. When she’s finished, she hands him the list and is out the door. 

* * *

Something’s wrong. Krosa doesn’t know what it is but everything feels… off. Heightened, in a sense, leaving her feeling jittery. Her thoughts are slippery, her hands and feet tingly. She leaves Brynjolf to his treasure trove and makes her way further down the hall. The information the Thalmor have on her is troubling. She thought she was being careful: blending in, not standing out. But that couldn’t be farther from the truth. It’s no wonder the Alik’r found her so quickly.

Krosa tries to reach out to the dragon. It’s been a while since she heard from him, and the fact that she was unable to draw power from him or the others for the Shout worries her. All her attempts are met with silence, but she can still feel them there.  _ What are they doing? _

A muffled cry echoes through the hall, and Krosa shakes it all off. Now is not the time to worry. She needs to focus. Delphine said that if Etienne was still alive, he’d be here, and it sounds like she’s coming up on the Thalmor’s dungeon. 

Dirty is one word for it, as is gloomy. If Krosa had a larger vocabulary, she may be able to think of better words to describe it properly. The stench is the first thing to hit her, nearly making her lose the contents of her stomach. Voices can be heard, and Krosa sees shadows dancing on the wall as they come closer. She turns around and goes back to the office, reprimanding herself for getting distracted. Splitting up is the last thing they should do.

Brynjolf ushers her in when she appears at the door. “Can you do me a favor, lass?”

Krosa nods.

He digs into his shirt, and pulls out a handful of gold and silver necklaces. “Can you wear these?”

“Why?” Krosa asks, crossing her arms.  _ He can’t be serious. _

“They dig in when I wear the pack,” he says with a shrug.

“You can’t just leave them behind?” 

“Why would I when there’s another option?”

“Fine. Whatever.” Brynjolf thanks her, then immediately sets to decorating her with the damned stuff. After the third necklace, she has to ask, “How much junk do you have stuffed in there?”

“I’ll show you later, lass. And it’s not  _ junk _ , it's jewels.” When he’s finished he steps away and puts on the pack. “I hate to ask this, lass, but with these new developments, I have to. What are you here for?”

Krosa can see his point. “A possible prisoner,” she says, “and the dungeon isn’t far.”

“Possible?”

“He may be dead.”

“That’s all?”

Delphine had also wanted information on Thalmor plots and plans; the woman was certain they’re somehow involved with Alduin’s return— or at least that's what she says. But Krosa's not sure if she believes Delphine; she doesn’t have an interest in doing so.

The information is likely back in the main building of the Embassy. Krosa forgot that was the reason why she was supposed to go through there in the first place. She hopes whatever Brynjolf found is enough information to keep Delphine happy. 

“That’s all,” Krosa says, starting down the hall. Brynjolf follows close behind. This time when they reach the door to the dungeons, Krosa listens at the door before going through. 

“Well. This place is dismal,” Brynjolf whispers, and Krosa nods in agreement. The place isn't very large— only a handful of cells lining both walls with a large iron door at the end of the room— but something’s not right. It takes her a moment to realize what. Krosa walks up and down the aisle. 

"No one's here," Krosa says, ignoring the pounding in her head. _Damn it_ , she sighs, hand running through her hair only to catch on one of the pins. "Do you think there's more areas or just the one?" she asks as she yanks the pin out and tosses it into one of the cells.

"I don't know. I would have thought that would be something you knew," he says, and Krosa doesn't like the look he gives her. "What does your prisoner look like?"

"I'm not sure." Krosa hoped knowing his name would be enough.

"Do you even have a plan?"

"Yes," Krosa says defensively, then relaxes a smidge. Brynjolf’s scrutiny is well deserved. "Kind of… at first." She can't remember most of it now.

The thought of even trying to come up with one makes her head spin. It takes all she can to stay standing, focused, and oriented. Her grip isn't as strong as it should be, and her stomach feels like it's flopping around. Whatever’s wrong with her seems to be growing worse. Should she say something or just hope for the best?

"Did you find all the names on the list I gave you?"

"Yes."

"Maybe we should leave." Krosa doesn't know what else to do. Brynjolf looks like he can't believe what he's hearing. 

"Don't you think we should at least check behind that door, lass?" he asks, pointing to the door behind her. Oh yeah. The door.

"It's probably locked," she says, knowing it's a flimsy excuse. 

He flashes a grin. "Lass, take a good look at who you're talking to."

Krosa stays silent, and Brynjolf says nothing more, and goes straight to the door. Krosa considers following him, but decides it's better to wait and watch for guards.

Several minutes go by, and just when Krosa is thinking about heading in, Brynjolf comes out with a skeleton of a man who is leaning heavily against him. The man’s arms are caked with dried blood coming from deep gouges on his wrist that look to be from shackles; his body was marred with scars clearly from tortured only.

"Who's that?"

"An old friend. He may not be who you're looking for, but he may know something."

"Can you tell me if there's a man named Etienne here?" Krosa asks and they both stare at her unblinking. "What?"

"He  _ is _ Etienne, lass."

"Oh."  _ That was easy _ . 

* * *

Delphine can’t believe it. They have the lost, complete history of past Dragonborns. The book is big, tattered, and dusty. The Blades had a copy of it, but most of the pages were missing or unreadable and it was lost in persecution, as were so many things: her sister one of them. 

Angi had been the keeper of their history, master of archery, and next in line to lead them. And she’d been only seventeen. Delphine had been twenty two and she was only ever the muscle, the enforcer, the brute.  _ If only I was the one to die _ . Angi would have been better suited for all of this. 

Delphine sighs, then opens the book, being as careful as she can. The papers crinkle slightly, and Delphine tries adjusting her grip. 

_ This is not the original copy, nor is it a translation. I have taken what I remember from the original, information from other texts, and what I have found in my travels and compiled it together, trying to make it as complete as possible. Nowhere else will information like this be found compiled together, I also have written down where I have found this information and where more information can be found. Accompanied with the information are my musings, and I hope you remember they are founded on a scholar’s mind for questioning and— aside from the information given— I know no more than you. I hope all this work does not go to waste. And while my name cannot accompany this work, I hope it brings honor to me with it’s truth. _

Delphine knows the handwriting. It belongs to Esbern, and considering the state of the book it’s either decades old or has been through quite a bit of rough travels. Delphine did remember him constantly working on something that he would never speak of. The next page is the Table of Contents, and Delphine baulks at all he has.

_ Prophecy of the Last Dragonborn………………....3 _

_ The Dragonborn Legacy...…………………………...12 _

_ The Question of Mankar Camoran……………….21 _

_ Martin Septim………………………………………….34 _

_ Disproving the Nereveraine………………………...52 _

_ The Dragon Empire……………………………..…...56 _

_ Tiber Septim…………………………………………...77 _

_ The Cyrodillic Dynasty……………………………...91 _

_ Reman Cyrodiil……………………………………….112 _

_ The Heirs of Dragonfire…………………………….123 _

_ The Slave Queen Alessia……………………………134 _

_ The Controversy of Olaf One-Eye………………..146 _

_ Wulfharth, Dragon of the North………………….169 _

_ Miraak and The Three Tongues …………………..188 _

_ Final Words…………………………………………….193 _

Delphine doesn’t sleep that night, but she still doesn’t get far in her reading. The amount of information in so few pages is astounding, but what  _ really _ gets her mind turning are Esbern’s musings. He believed there is a difference between Dragonborns— those chosen by Akatosh, and those born from the chosen. Blood vs soul. 

Those born with Dragonborn blood are far weaker than those chosen by Akatosh himself, and as the generations go by, the weaker that blood gets until it’s nothing more than a title to hold. None are capable of a true Dragonborn’s purpose: killing dragons and absorbing their souls, thereby inheriting their power. While those chosen by Akatosh have the soul of a dragon within them, it is unknown whether prominent figures in history carried that ability since it was untested.

And that’s not all. Delphine rereads the paragraph that has kept her from going on.

_ “If it’s true that Akatosh can choose whom he pleases, is it possible to choose more than one? If the Last Dragonborn happens to fail at their purpose, can another be chosen to take their place? After all, The Last Dragonborn is only needed because of the failure of the First, if my information is correct. It may be possible that the Last Dragonborn refers to the one who will defeat Alduin, not the first blessed with the ability to do so. An interesting line of thought, but—” _

A thunderous rumble ricochets throughout the room; the candles clatter onto the table in kind, some falling off the table. Delphine jumps out of her chair, quickly righting them all and putting out the flames. Shouts can be heard from beyond the door, and heavy, armored footsteps clang up the stairs.  _ What is going on? _ Whatever it is, is it better to go find out or stay and maybe even hide?

* * *

“You know, lass, that wasn’t nearly as exciting as I thought it would be… well, save for our little outdoor excursion.” Brynjolf was happy to see that there was, at least, an escape plan. At first, he was a bit wary of trusting a random cart driver, but Krosa assured him that the driver was previously chosen and had already accepted the job.

“That means we did good… Despite a few poor choices.”  _ And poor planning, _ Brynjolf thinks, but he won't hold that against her. He can tell there's something troubling her. There has been the whole night, and Brynjof has grown more confident that it's not whatever is between them. He just wishes she'd let him know what it was.

“Yeah, but… you know,” Brynjolf says with a shrug.

“What did you think was going to happen?” 

“A fight to be honest, or a daring escape at the very least,” Brynjolf admits, and Krosa crosses her arms as she leans back in the seat, eyes closing.

“There was a fight. And we’re no longer there, so technically we escaped.”

“Both were easily handled. They don’t count.”

“Sorry it was so disappointing for you. Next time I’ll be less competent for your enjoyment.” Brynjolf assumes she was trying to sound playful, but there’s a tinge of annoyance in her tone.

“That would be greatly appreciated, lass,” he says, hoping things aren’t going to get awkward between them again.

“What is wrong with you two?” Etienne asks, causing them both to flinch.

"Well, she's terrible at planning and I am a good-for-nothing thief," he says, lightly, looking to see Krosa’s reaction. The lanterns on the cart sway in the breeze, making it harder to get a good look, and her face is always half in shadow. Her eyes are closed, brows furrowed, and a frown stains her face.  _ Maybe she’s just tired,  _ Brynjolf thinks,  _ or hungry.  _ Brynjolf knows he’s both of those things. Krosa’s attempt at going after the food makes even more sense to him now.

Time passes slowly, and soon Etienne falls asleep. It’s hard to tell if Krosa is asleep or not, but Brynjolf assumes not. Her body seems too rigid. She opens her eyes suddenly, and for a moment Brynjolf thinks she’s going to reprimand him for staring.

“I didn’t want to go in there again.”

Brynjolf blinks. “What?”

“And I hated that dress.”  _ Oh.  _

“Please tell me you’re joking,” Brynjolf says, wondering why in the world she’d risk the job and their lives for  _ that.  _ While her dislike for social gatherings is prevalent, it’s still not reason enough in his opinion. And there was nothing wrong with the dress.

“I wish I was,” she says, cringing. “I— I think I was panicking— You gave me the easiest way out. And I’m sorry for acting so… weird the whole time. I don’t know what was wrong with me. I just—I didn’t feel like myself. I guess I still don’t.”

“I’m not going to lie, I was thrown off a bit—” She grimaces, and Brynjolf starts to worry. Is there an injury he doesn’t know about? “Lass, are you—”

“I don’t know. I think—” Her hand falls to her stomach, and her face turns sour. She tells the driver suddenly, “Stop the cart.”

“What?”

“I said stop the—” she starts, but turns and vomits over the side, the driver slowly moving to a stop. Brynjolf leaps out of his seat to help her out. Her body shudders as another wave hits her. When she stops, Krosa tears off one of her gauntlets to wipe her mouth with her sleeve. There really is no saving that dress now. She doesn’t take her eyes off the snow, and Brynjolf follows her gaze.

“Is that… blood?" 

* * *

"You said she was going to be here,” Elenwen says, closing in on the elf. She hates when people fail to cooperate— but even worse, she hates being betrayed. And  _ this _ one betrayed her twice.

"She was!” the elf cries, tugging at his restraints. “I talked to her in Solitude just this morning!" Elenwen frowns, wondering if it’s about time to start the torture. She hasn’t gotten that far into the interrogation, but she’s in a mood. And she  _ hates  _ Bosmer. They’re sniveling, good for nothing,  _ ugly,  _ second-rate elves marred by their lack of decorum and civil society.

"No one came in or approached the bar with the description you gave, and no one has so much as fainted or vomitted,” she says, wondering just how she’ll make him scream. “The poison should have worked by now." The poison was expensive too, but she’d thought it would be worth the expense.

He shakes his head as she picks up a potion— one of her favorites. "I swear I gave it to her, please believe—” Someone barges in through the door, and Elenwen spins around.

"I'm in the  _ middle _ of something," she spits out, but the guard is undeterred.

"Someone got through to the dungeons. Several guards are dead," he says through panting breaths. Elenwen straightens.

"And the prisoner?” 

"Gone."

"How did she get through?" she asks, pacing. They had this night planned to the last detail. The whole party was just to lure the  _ damned  _ Blade and Dragonborn. It took everything she had to convince her superiors it would be worth the expense. 

"She must have found another way in,” the guard says, straightening after catching his breath. “All guards in the main building are fine and reported no suspicious activity.”

"I didn't tell her anything, I swear!” the wood elf cries from the chair, and Elenwen rolls her eyes. She puts the bottle down, and turns to leave the room, locking him inside the darkness. She has more important matters to attend to.

"Have any carts left the premises?" she asks the guard as they make their way to the courtyard.

"One. I've already sent a team after it."

  
  
  
  
  
  



	10. A Few Problems Here and There

"Krosa, lass, look at me,” Brynjolf says, turning her face to him when she doesn’t comply.  _ Shit.  _ Brynjolf may not be a healer, but Ingun told him a lot about poisons during their potion-making sessions, and only one of the symptoms are red veins in the eyes. Brynjolf can only guess at what else she's been feeling this whole time. Poison would explain everything.

"Why didn't you say anything, lass?” he asks, holding back his anger. If she had just  _ said  _ something. They likely could have found a cure or something to relieve the pain at the Embassy.

"What are you talking about?”

"Poison like this doesn't just appear out of nowhere. You were acting strange the whole  _ damned _ night,” he says, trying to find something that could be a clue as to her condition, but her makeup is still thick and, for the first time that night, Brynjolf wishes it wasn’t there.

Krosa pulls her face out of his hands. "It's fine, Brynjolf. Don't worry about it. I'm already feeling better. I'm fine." Brynjolf wonders how bad it was if she considers _ this _ better. She almost seems  _ drunk _ . He has no idea which poison this could be. There are far too many possibilities, even if he could narrow it down by symptoms.

"Tell me everything that you felt,” he says, crossing his arms and Krosa plops back down in her seat, hand at her temple. The cart starts moving again— going a little faster this time, and Brynjolf is grateful that someone else besides him has sense.

"I just felt sick… off… and tingly.”

He sits down next to her, taking a deep breath and placing a hand on her knee, giving her no choice but to acknowledge his existence. "Krosa. I know you hate it, but now is the time to be as  _ detailed  _ as possible."

Her scowl is weak. "My stomach hurt and I was dizzy. It was hard to focus or think… and I felt weak, I guess.”

Brynjolf grinds his teeth, keeping himself from reacting. If he gets angry, Krosa will get angry, and right now she needs to be as calm and relaxed as possible.

"Why didn't you say anything?” he asks when he has a handle on himself.

She shrugs. "I thought it was just something I ate or stress or something.”

Brynjolf’s not sure he believes that. "Have you had anything to eat or drink?”

Krosa shakes her head. "I can't remember.”

"Krosa—” His hand on her knee tightens.

"I don't know, probably— wait. This morning. At the Inn." There’s a look of realization on her face before it’s marred by a grim scowl.

"Have you had hot or cold flashes?”

"No,” she says quickly, and Brynjolf knows she just wants him to stop talking. He lifts his hand, wondering why in the world she’s not taking this more seriously.

"How do you feel now, lass?” he asks as she sinks lower into the seat, arms crossed.

"Tired… Grumpy.”

He waits for more before he sits back, seething. Does she just not realize how bad it is? Is it the poison? Or can she just not bring herself to care? Is it him? Whatever it is, Brynjolf’s had enough of it. He—

"I hate to break it to you guys, but it looks like we got company," the driver says, tilting his head to the right. Brynjolf turns to see a cart in the distance, full of people. When he squints, he sees who they are.

"Shit." Shit shit shit. This is the  _ last _ thing they need right now. Anything that gets Krosa’s heart rate up could worsen the effects and bring her quicker to death. But if they don’t fight, they’re worse than dead, and Krosa’s the best chance they got.

"Krosa, can you fight?”

"I can always fight,” she says, watching the cart of Thalmor with murder in her eyes.

"They have mages, lass.”

"I can see that,” she all but growls. “I'm not completely helpless."

Brynjolf considers his options. None are ideal.  _ Ideal _ would be Krosa not poisoned, and the Thalmor not chasing them. Or one or the other.

"Do you think you can lose them?” he asks the driver.

"I can try.”

"I said I can fight," Krosa insists, sitting straighter.

"But it may make the poison go through your system quicker, lass. I don’t know if I want to risk it.” 

"Are we still going to Solitude?" the driver asks, and Brynjolf shakes his head.

"No.”

"Yes.”

"Krosa—”

"All my stuff is there. I'm not leaving it behind. End of story." Brynjolf misses when she was delirious and cooperative.

"We'll have to fight them then. They'll be expecting Solitude even if we—” The map from the office flashes through his mind, and he closes his eyes to better picture it. There was a big blue flag in Solitude Hold, close to Dragon Bridge. That can only mean one thing.

"You guys need to decide  _ right now.” _ The crossroads is coming. Brynjolf can see it from here.

"I don’t have a problem with that.”

Brynjolf makes up his mind. "Take us to Dragon Bridge."

"What?” the driver and Krosa ask simultaneously

“There should be a Stormcloak camp in that area.”

“Brynjolf—”

“Once we take care of them, we’ll go back to Solitude, lass. We may not even need to go all the way.”

She huffs and mutters something under her breath. The driver turns sharply onto the road to Dragon Bridge, urging the horses to a near gallop. Krosa grimaces as the ride gets even bumpier.

“You’ll tell me if it gets worse, lass?” She nods and Brynjolf wonders if he should make her say it out loud. He’s not even sure she really heard him or knows what she’s agreeing to.

* * *

_ “Need some help with that?” Alesan asks, approaching with casual swagger. _

_ “No,” Krosa says, focusing on the mess in front of her. Vander’s men sure know how to leave the stables a mess. A horse neighs, pushing against the stall door. Krosa hates horses. _

_ “Are you sure? That’s a lot of work for a little lady like yourself.” _

_ “Stop calling me that. I’m not little.” _

_ Alesan smirks. “That’s a lot of work even for a determined lady like yourself.” _

_ Krosa blushes, then scowls. “Go away. Stop trying to help me.” He’ll only make things worse. What doesn’t he get about that? _

_ “You’re not very good at being nice, are you?” _

_ “There’s no such thing as ‘nice’ here.” Nice is a façade, a lure, a trick. She sweeps harder, the broom smacking on the ground and dust and dirt rising up in clouds. Nice doesn’t come without a price— and falling for it just proves that one is not worthy of survival. Her nose burns, but she refuses to sneeze. She’s lucky there’s not much pretending left around here anymore. _

_ After this, she’ll have to clean out the stalls. _

_ “You sure are something else,” he says, leaning against the wall. Krosa ignores him and continues working and thinking of all she has yet to do today. Soon, he loses interest and leaves. _

_ When it’s time to eat, Krosa happily leaves. She’s already more than halfway through the damn list. Maybe she’ll have some time to relax before the day is done. _

_ Krosa exits the servant’s quarters and makes her way quickly back to the stables. The sun beats heavily down on her back, casting shadows into the brown grass. She smiles. If she finishes before sunset, she can go to her favorite spot and write in her journal before night time. No one’s found it yet. She stops when she sees someone else in the stables— Alesan. _

_ “What are you  _ doing _?” she asks, running in to see the damage done. _

_ “Helping.”  _

_ She slaps him.  _

_ “Are you stupid? I said I don’t need your help! Do you not understand what that means?” Tears sting both their eyes, and he's shocked speechless. Krosa looks through all the windows, trying to see if anyone would have seen.. If they  _ caught  _ him— All it would take is one look into the window at the wrong time.  _

_ “I’m sorry,” he says, leaving her alone with the horse shit. _

_ When Krosa finishes far earlier than planned, she finds it hard to relax. _

* * *

Ralof hates this post. He’d rather be out there with Ulfric, reclaiming Holds rather than holed up here. In his short career as a Stormcloak soldier, he only had to sleep in one encampment before this— and that was when it was warmer. Now, his snot is frozen in his nose, he can never truly feel his toes, and the men are rowdier and messier than Ralof thought possible. It was charming at first— fun even— but now it gives him a headache. He always has a headache.

It’s impossible to have any sort of privacy, even in one’s tent. Guard duty is when he has the most semblance of peace. But the gods, it seems, have other plans for tonight. It started with one cart barreling down the road, moving loud enough to get half the camp to listen as they go, making jokes and bets as to where they are heading. They slowed down when they saw him, steering off the road. Ralof hoped he wouldn’t get reprimanded for being so out in the open.

A man hopped off the cart and ran to him, other soldiers surrounding him. The man and the women with him sport elven armor, the driver is in thick furs and leather, and someone is swaddled in what looks like Thalmor Justiciar robes.

“Who are you? Wh—”

“The Thalmor are right behind us. We need your help,” the man said quickly, and the sound of a cart coming down the hill got the rest of them moving. It’s amazing how fast they got into position, but it’s not at all surprising: most of the men here are always itching for a fight. And they all hate Thalmor with every fiber of their being.

The ambush went well at first, but it didn’t take long for the Thalmor to recover. And now, it’s a camp-wide battle, hundreds of men versus less than a dozen of the damned elves. Whoever these people are, the Thalmor really didn’t want to lose them. 

Ralof had only heard tales of what it was like to face the Thalmor on the battlefield. The tales don’t do them any justice. Flashes of blue, purple, and orange taint the sky, freezing, electrocuting, and burning anyone who comes too close. But it seems they weren’t as prepared as they could have been. When their magic flickers, they don’t drink any potions to re-energize themselves, and it doesn’t take long for their magic to drain out.

The woman fights like a hurricane— an equal match for the elves. If it weren’t for her magic, Ralof would assume they’d see more casualties on their side. She stumbles sometimes and wavers, but she recovers quickly. Ralof wishes he could join in, adding another sword to their side, but right now he's their only healer. And he needs to stay alive. 

As soon as the elves’ magic shows signs of failing, the woman goes in, dispatching two of them almost simultaneously. The man stays close to her, helping when he can and barely taking his eyes off of her for more than a second. A group of soldiers struggle with one Thalmor who can take them down with a single swing of his sword. He goes after the woman next, separating her from the man. Another elf charges at the man and neither of them sees it coming. 

* * *

The effects of the poison seem to disappear as she fights. Krosa feels more like herself than she has in days, weeks even. No, she feels  _ far _ better. The power of the dragons thrums through her veins, giving her more than enough strength, speed, and magicka. 

“Do you think you can take them all out at once?” a soldier fighting beside her asks after she lets loose a fiery blaze from the palm of her hand.

“I don’t have  _ that  _ kind of power,” Krosa says, wondering why he felt the need to ask. If she could have, she would have. Even if she did use the Voice she doubts it would kill all of them, and she has no idea if their magical wards would protect them from it or not.

_ “You don't have that kind of power yet. But you could, if you wished it. Not even magic could protect them from your fury." _

_ “You’re back. Where were you?” _

The dragon doesn’t reply, and Krosa refocuses on the fight with renewed anger. A Thalmor comes at her, sword crackling with electricity. Krosa ducks and dodges, knowing what would happen if she parried the blade. Many men have already fallen to it. She waits for the perfect time to strike— she sees it. Krosa knocks the blade out of his hand, bringing hers between the crevice of his armor and into his stomach. He slumps onto her blade.

“This isn’t over. We’ll find you,” he hisses into her ear, and Krosa twists her blade, ignoring the clenching in her stomach. Usually she avoids causing unnecessary pain. The elf groans, then goes limp. She pulls it out, and he falls to the ground. She stabs him one more time through the back of his neck for good measure. 

_ “So there is some dragon in you after all.” _ the dragon muses. Krosa doesn’t know if she likes the sound of that, but the dragon certainly thinks it’s a compliment.

Krosa steps away from the body, surveying the battlefield. There should only be two left, but they’re nowhere to be seen. The others must have gotten to them. Krosa stifles her disappointment before looking around to find Brynjolf. He’s also nowhere to be seen.

“Brynjolf!” she calls out, assuming the worst.

“Over here, lass.”

She turns to the sound of the voice, breaking into a run when she sees him on the ground, the body of a Thalmor close by. The Stormcloak soldier hovering over him blocks most of her view, and it’s only when she’s right by their side that she sees the knife embedded into his stomach.

“How bad is it?” she asks, kneeling and getting a good look.

“I can’t tell, but it seems stuck in there pretty good,” the soldier says, nudging her away to finish his own inspection.

“Can you heal him? Do you have a healer?”

_ "I'm  _ the healer."

“You should look at her too,” Brynjolf says, cringing as he tries to move into a better position. “She was poisoned by the Thalmor.”

The soldiers look at her, some with worry and others with doubt.

“I told you I feel fine, Brynjolf.” 

_ “You’re welcome.”  _ Krosa brushes the dragon off as she helps cut off Brynjolf’s cuirass at the healer's beckoning, doing her best not to jostle the knife. Her heart thunders in her chest, and her hands tremble slightly as she pulls the cuirass off.

There’s barely any blood. 

It hits her then, why that must be. She yanks the knife out, causing the healer to balk as she tears the hole in his tunic wider and pulls out a tangle of golden chains. Red stains them, and they’re falling apart from being sliced through. The wound itself is hardly worth any worry, though it will require stitches. Everyone is quiet, and Krosa sees Brynjolf hiding a smirk.

“Looks like you got lucky,” the soldier states, inspecting the wound after leveling Krosa with a glare, and he pulls out a sparkling bracelet from within the tunic. Several soldiers lean in to get a better look. Krosa wonders how on Nirn Brynjolf stuffed so much in there, and how much more there even is. 

“I got that one off of a High Elf,” Brynjolf says, and Krosa doesn’t know whether to hit him or strangle him. The others look equally unimpressed. Her head pounds worse than before as the adrenaline starts to fade, but she ignores it.

“Now’s a good time to tell us what this is all about,” the soldier says as he pulls out a small bottle, cloth, needle, and thread from a pouch at his side and gets to work.

“We were freeing a prisoner,” Krosa says, getting to her feet. “And—” she starts, but darkness comes crashing in, and she has no choice but to fall in.

* * *

_ “You’re coming with us?” Alesan asks when she arrives, and Krosa glares at him. Ever since she slapped him, he’s kept his distance. She still feels bad about it, but she has a sneaking suspicion that he would not have listened if she hadn’t. _

_ “She’s the distraction you suggested,” Vander says, not even sparing her a look. _

_ “But she could be caught— and— and killed.” _

_ “Better her than us, my boy. Besides, I think you’ll be surprised at what she can do.” Krosa keeps her face neutral as Vander speaks. This is her first mission since Nazir abandoned her here, she has no idea what to expect from Vander. “Loosen up. You’re as stiff and useless as a board like that.”  _

_ Alesan looks at her helplessly. “Are you sure you want to do this?” _

_ “I do whatever Vander tells me to do,” is all she says, and Vander nods. _

_ “A good answer, girl,” he says to her, placing a hand on her shoulder while giving Alesan a warning look. Krosa clenches her teeth, avoiding both their eyes. “And you’d better stop talking to her. She knows her place, it’s about time you learned it too.” _

* * *

Krosa’s eyes snap open, and she sits up, looking around frantically. She's in what looks like a long tent, fulfilled with rows of cots and injured soldiers. It’s light out, but it’s hard to tell what time it is with no sun to see.

“Easy, easy,” a man’s voice soothes, and a blonde-haired blue-eyed Nord with a disfiguring scar on his face comes over to her. Krosa slows her breathing. He was the healer from the night before, but also—

“I know you.”

“From Helgen, I believe,” he says, and then she remembers: the soldier who was with Ulfric. That’s who he is. 

Krosa’s glad she decided not to use any of her Shouts. Ulfric will likely hear about this, and that could have been disastrous. 

“Your friend explained everything," the soldier says as he inspects her eyes. "Quite the daring mission.”

Krosa has no idea what Brynjolf would have said about their excursion and decides it’s better not to speak of it. Instead, she asks, “Where is he?”

“He went to Solitude, but he should be back soon. The skinny one is over there, at the end,” he says, pointing. Krosa glances over for only a second before turning back to the soldier.

“And the poison?”

“Gone from your system it seems, though I hardly understand how. It was mostly gone before I gave you the antidote. I’m surprised you were able to fight so well. That poison should have wrecked you.”

The dragon. That’s what he was up to the whole time. Krosa regrets any poor thoughts she’s ever had about him. She doesn’t know how he convinced the others to help out— or maybe they just didn’t want to speak to her. That would make more sense.  _ I’ll have to thank him later.  _ Right now his presence is faint, almost as if he's resting.

“What happens now?” Krosa asks.

“Once your friend gets back, we’re moving camp. And you get to go wherever you’re off to, but we’re keeping the cart and horses.”

“What about the driver?” Krosa asks, wondering how he’d be okay with that arrangement.

“He didn’t make it.”

“Oh.” Krosa says, feeling numb. She doesn’t even know his name. He could have a family waiting for him for all she knows.

“Dragon Bridge isn’t far, only an hour’s walk from here.” Then, he pauses, studying her. “How are you feeling?"

“Fine.”

He frowns. “You said that before you passed out. Your friend made me promise to ensure you don’t overexert yourself.”

“I don’t feel anything. Maybe a little hungry.”

The soldier smiles and gets to his feet. “You can eat, but stick to bland foods. I’m not sure if you can handle anything stronger, but it’s better to be safe than sorry. Oh— and drink plenty of water. I was just about to leave for a late lunch, if you want to come with me.”

Krosa nods, getting up slowly and trying not to be too irritated by his constant gaze and asking how she’s feeling. He’s only doing his job. When they exit the tent, the light hurts Krosa’s eyes, and she has to squint. The camp is in the process of packing up but there’s nothing quick about it. Several men grumble, though some seem to be glad for something to do.

When they reach the food tent, Krosa has to keep herself from running and shoving people out of the way to get to it quicker. She blames the dragons. Luckily for her, it’s easy enough considering how exhausted she still feels. Soup and bread, that’s all there is—and there’s not much left by the looks of it. Krosa hopes they’re allowed to have seconds. After getting their food, the soldier leads her to an empty spot, clear of soldiers.

“I usually like to eat alone,” he explains, and Krosa only nods in reply, immediately digging into the soup.

“I take it Ulfric will hear about this,” Krosa says once she finishes. 

“The report has already been sent.”  _ Great,  _ Krosa thinks as she tears into a roll next. It’s dry and flavorless, but Krosa won’t hold that against it. “You’re allowed seconds,” the soldier says as he gives her a water flask to drink from. “But you should wait a few minutes. Too much all at once could make you feel sick— and a tip for rolls, dipping them in the soup helps.”

Krosa nods, before getting up to do just that. She pockets extra rolls, just in case Brynjolf is hungry when he returns. He’s only out there for her, paying him with food is the least she could do— even if the second serving fails to fill her. Once she’s well and truly done with eating, the soldier recommends she get more rest. She’s never met anyone with so many good ideas, and happily does as she’s told.

* * *

_ There’s someone outside— footsteps crunching the hay. Krosa readies herself for anything. It’s not unusual that one of Vander’s men pays her a visit while drunk and aggressive. They’ve never been able to do anything quite yet, and Krosa’s not about to let them tonight, even if her arm is killing her from the job. When the figure emerges from the darkness, Krosa relaxes a bit. It’s only Alesan. She could take him in her sleep. _

_ “I think you were right,” he says when he sees her, and Krosa tries not to acknowledge his pained expression. “They’re not nice, are they?” he asks, and Krosa’s curiosity gets the better of her. _

_ “What happened?” she asks, and he breaks down at the question, shoulders shaking and tears streaming down his face while he just stands there stupidly. _

_ Krosa’s eyes go wide. “Don’t do that!” she exclaims, tensing up as she looks around, not knowing what to do. “They’ll punish you if they see you do that.” _

_ “What am I supposed to do?” he asks, wiping away tears with a fist. _

_ “Suck it up. Turn it off, I don’t know! Just stop!” _

_ “I don’t want to go back in there.” _

_ “You’ll have to eventually.” _

_ “Can I just stay here for now? I promise I’ll hide if anyone comes along. And I won’t get in the way of—” He looks around the barn, then at her curiously, “whatever you’re doing here.”  _

Is this a trick?  _ Krosa wonders briefly, but the sight of him standing there looking so sad is too pathetic, and Krosa knows it can’t be. No member of the Da’Vam family would ever bring themselves so low. She sets down the pitchfork she’s holding, having almost forgotten she still has it up and at the ready. Krosa sighs,  _ Why does he have to be such a baby? 

_ “Fine. But you really should stop crying.” _

* * *

_ Hands at her throat— struggling to breathe. Fighting for her life, tears running down her face. The sting of betrayal, the sting of a blade. Krosa won’t die. Not like this— not here. All that’s on her mind is rage and fear— desperation. A will to survive. _

_ “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” _

Murderer _. _

_ “Fight it. Don’t let it consume you.” Krosa tries catching her breath, but the panic has already set in.  _

Traitor _. _

_ Krosa turns around as the scene changes, and this time it's Sinding standing there, tears in his eyes. _

Traitor _. _

_ Hands around her neck, fighting to survive. Fighting to breathe, fighting to live. Always, always. Never an end. Crying, hurting— _

_ “You’re in control. End it.” _

* * *

Something touches her neck, and her eyes fly open. It’s Brynjolf.

“What are you doing!?” She sits up, hand flying to the offending part of her neck still warm from his fingers.

“Checking your pulse,” he says, hands raised in defense. 

“My pulse is fine.”

“Well, I can see that now.”

“Next time, wake me up like a normal person!” Krosa says, unusually agitated. She doesn’t even know why it’s so prevalent, like a disease festering and itching beneath her skin. She rubs the spot he touched, before dropping her hand.

“The last time I tried that you punched me.” Krosa only glares. “Here,” he says, handing her her pack. “I put your armor under the cot, and your sword is right there.” He nods to the head of her bed, and Krosa sees it leaning against the tent, within easy reach. She loosens her shoulders.

“Thanks,” Krosa mumbles, taking the pack from him and checking it’s contents.  _ Not to see if he stole anything,  _ she tells herself,  _ just to see if there’s anything he missed.  _ Everything’s there. The sight of her journal hardens her stomach.

“Don’t mention it,” he says, turning to leave.

Krosa sighs, “Brynjolf.” 

“Hmm?” he says, an eyebrow raised as he comes back to her.

“I’m still… upset about the journal thing. But I’m also sorry for how I treated you. And for— well, you know—” Krosa doesn’t know why this is so hard.

“Thinking I was a traitorous bastard?” he asks, and Krosa notices the distance in his voice.

“Yeah. That. And for calling you one,” Krosa watches him carefully.

“I believe what you said was ‘lying bastard’, lass,” he says, giving her a tight smile. “But I appreciate the apology nonetheless.”

“I saved you some food. Thought you might be hungry.” Krosa pulls out the square of cloth with the rolls stored inside. He takes it. He doesn’t really even look at it.

“I am. Thank you, lass.” 

“What’s wrong?” 

“Nothing. Don’t worry about it.”

“Brynjolf—”

“You should get ready to go. We’re leaving soon,” he says, then leaves.

  
  
  



	11. Colorful Conversations

Brynjolf doesn’t know what’s bothering him. They travel in almost complete silence. Krosa won’t stop shooting him furtive glances; once, she even tried to start up a conversation that quickly petered out into nothing. Usually, the fact that she was trying to be friendly would have made him happy. But right now, he finds he couldn’t care less.

Etienne is barely conscious, Brynjolf bearing most of his weight. Krosa offered to help out, but Brynjolf wouldn’t have it— though he did allow her to carry the pack of dossiers and jewelry. He’s not entirely sure which is heavier. They’re going slower than they should be, but it can’t be helped. _At least the weather’s not too bad_. It’s only cold enough to keep him awake, and there are small flurries that float around, falling slowly to the ground. He can see Krosa looking up and around as subtly as she can, and does his best to ignore it.

He’s risked his life for her more than once in just a single night and— _No. Not right now._ Not when she’s so close. They’re almost there. And once they are, he’ll have a room to himself and can let out his pent up aggravation without worry of upsetting anyone. He can do this. He’s good at doing this. By tomorrow, everything will be fine. 

When they get there, only a few people are out and about, and the day gets a little darker. Before they go to the Inn, they drop Etienne off at the temple. It’s risky, but having all of them at the Inn is riskier. Besides, maybe he’ll be better after some time with actual healers. Krosa pays for everything.

They make it. _Finally._

“Two rooms, please,” Brynjolf says as nicely as he’s able.

“I’m sorry, but we only have one.” 

“Are you sure you—”

“We only have one.”

“We’ll take it,” Krosa says, paying him. “Thank you.”

 _I can’t win._ Brynjolf tries to keep a straight face. If Krosa’s the friendlier of the two of them, then there really _is_ a problem here. But Brynjolf already knew that. And what’s worse is he can’t solve the problem like he usually does: the only viable candidate is Krosa, and she’s the problem… though the serving girl isn’t too bad. But that _really_ won’t help anything— besides he and Krosa are sharing a room. Not that they need one, but still. She’s here, and part of him thinks she'll know what he's doing. Brynjolf hates thinking clearly. 

_There’s drinking,_ he tells himself _, drinking’s never failed me before._ Brynjolf wishes more than ever he stole a bottle of that wine from the party. Now he’ll have to settle for the basics. Krosa doesn’t stop him when he leaves without a word, but he can feel her watching him. It takes him a while to find what he’s looking for. He lifts a bottle of Mountain Berry Brew, hoping that he can at least pretend it’s something fancier. He wonders if he should find some place to drink alone, but he can’t avoid her forever.

Krosa is on the floor tending to her blades when Brynjolf returns. She has a collection of them sitting on the bench she’s leaning against: one is the Imperial gladius had he retrieved for her— it didn’t carry an enchantment nor did it seem special in any way— another is the enchanted glass sword that had torn through soldiers, and finally there are three elven daggers. _I wonder what happened to the Skyforge one,_ Brynjolf thinks, _and her shield._ He hasn’t seen either since the Alik’r fiasco. 

“You want some, lass?” he asks, going to the table and pouring the wine into glasses.

Krosa eyes the purple liquid as he comes over to sit opposite of her, trying to find a comfortable spot with the table digging into his back. She sets down the dagger she’s working on. “Where did you get that?”

“From the dining hall.” He waits for any sign of judgement, but it never comes.

“What does it taste like?”

Brynjolf shrugs. “Whatever mountain berries taste like, I guess. It’s good though.”

“Alright.” She grabs the cup from him and takes a sip, face perfectly blank as she swallows. Brynjolf downs his in three gulps before pouring himself more. 

“How are you feeling?”

“If you're upset about—”

“That’s not what I meant. Are you feeling any after effects from the poison?” He never asked or tried to notice if she was struggling with anything; it only just occurrs to him as he takes in her paleness and heavy shoulders.

“Not anymore.”

“The healer said it should have destroyed you from the inside out. It should have lasted for days.”

“It really didn’t seem that bad… but—” she drifts off, a pinched look on her face. And it takes Brynjolf a moment to realize what she’s trying to say.

“Someone set you up.” Brynjolf wants to ask what’s going on, but he knows what kind of answer he’s likely to get if she even decides to answer. A few seconds pass, and Krosa doesn’t offer anything up. Brynjolf doesn’t let himself think anything and takes another drink.

“If it weren’t for you—”

Brynjolf holds up a finger, cutting her off. He knows where this conversation is going to lead, and this time it’s his turn to say whatever in Oblivion he wants. “Not yet. I need to be more drunk if we’re going to have this conversation.”

Brynjolf downs another glass. Krosa follows his lead, even though it’s clear she’s not a fan of it. He refills both cups, and they sit there in silence.

When an acceptable amount of time passes and he starts to feel a slight buzz, Brynjolf says, “When are you going to start trusting me, lass?” he asks, swirling the wine in his glass before looking at Krosa. She puts down her cup, only half empty, and Brynjolf wonders if he should just take it from her and save them both some trouble.

“I do… trust you,” she says, not looking him in the eye.

“Do you? Because it sure doesn’t seem like it. You could have died because you refuse to accept my help. And even worse, you could have brought me down with you! And when I go out of my way to accommodate you, you _still_ give me the cold shoulder.”

He refuses to acknowledge that this time it was primarily him with the cold shoulder. Besides, he only did it because she did it first. Well, mostly. 

“I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking,” Krosa says, staring intently at her hands. “No, I was… I’m just used to doing everything myself… and I guess— It’s not you, I— I—” She picks up her glass, and downs the liquid, a slight grimace on her face. Several moments pass before she speaks up again, “I don’t like the idea of trusting people. The idea terrifies me.”

Brynjolf relents. “Krosa...”

She still won’t look at him, and she doesn't let him continue. "I don’t know how to not be alone. Anything else is just— I don't—” she fumbles, red tainting her cheeks. “I don’t know how… It’s uncomfortable for me.”

“You know, I’m surrounded by people I’ve known for years. I have a whole guild that I’m… mostly friends with–” Brynjolf gives her a small smile, though she doesn’t see it– “We drink, we laugh, have a good time. Yet I can only count the number of people who ever gave a shit about me on one hand.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever had anyone who cared.”

“I care, lass.” She frowns, finally meeting his eye for a moment. Brynjolf straightens, leg pressing against hers as he places a hand on her knee. He barely registers how cold it feels before saying, “Krosa, _I care_. That should be obvious by now.”

“Part of me wants to believe that.”

“Then believe it,” he says, scooting closer. “Take that risk. I promise even if I were nothing more than a scoundrel, you’d find a way to survive it.” Krosa tenses. _Did I go too far?_ Before he can move, she relaxes. 

“But what would be the point?” She shrugs hopelessly. “Of surviving, I mean. You said it before.”

Brynjolf grins. “So you do listen to what I say.” The barest twitch of a smile graces her face, and Brynjolf feels his heart skip a beat. _I've had too much to drink._

“Only sometimes.” 

Brynjolf removes his hand slowly, and he doesn’t know if the regretful longing on her face is real or just part of his imagination. He’s glad there’s not much left of the wine. It’s quiet for a while, and Brynjolf breaks the silence.

“My father was an abusive, drunken bastard. My mother grew sick with grief after a miscarriage, and he abandoned us. I apprenticed with a merchant who went out of business and took to the street, learning how to steal to support us. One day I was caught by a man named Gallus, the previous Guildmaster, who ended up recruiting me after my mother passed away.”

Krosa blinks a few times. “Why are you telling me this?”

“You made some good points before, lass. And I remember my mother once said ‘sharing is caring.’”

“Does that really apply to this?” Krosa asks softly, raising an eyebrow.

He shrugs. “Why don’t we let it?”

She’s quiet for a few moments, and Brynjolf holds his breath. He hasn’t told anybody this, hasn’t had to nor felt the need to. He feels naked and nervous. Wind screeches against the building, rattling the window. _Maybe that was too much._ Maybe he shouldn’t have said anything in the first place. Maybe—

Finally, Krosa speaks.

“I don’t know who my family was, or if I ever had one,” she says so quietly he can barely hear. “I can’t remember.” She avoids looking at him, fidgeting with the cup still in her hands.

Brynjolf nods slowly, taking in the information. It wasn’t much, but it was enough— actually more than he expected. As hard as it was for him, he can scarcely imagine how hard it was for someone as closed off and untrusting as her. _Not that she likely doesn’t have good reason to be._ The Alik’r come to his mind followed by the scars he’s seen. He can only imagine all the ones hidden beneath her— he stops that line of thought in its tracks. _That_ is a dangerous road. The wine really must be getting to him. Strange. He’s never been such a lightweight before.

“Okay, lass, now it’s your turn,” he says before those thoughts have a chance to return.

“Turn for what?”

Brynjolf struggles for a moment. He straightens, a plan already forming. “Asking a question.” 

“You didn’t ask a question though.” 

“Maybe I’ll ask one after,” he says with a smirk.

Krosa raises an eyebrow.

“Humor me.”

* * *

“Ok…” Krosa says slowly, racking her mind for anything worthwhile to ask. Nothing comes. She briefly wonders if she should ask the dragon but doubts he could help even if he wasn’t in some kind of hibernation. Brynjolf’s looking at her expectantly, so she gives up and says the only one coming to her mind, “What’s your favorite color?”

It takes him a moment to react. “Really?” He chuckles as he says, “That’s the best you can come up with?”

She crosses her arms. “If it’s too personal, then don’t tell me.”

“Fine… Gold.”

“Gold? Really?” _He has to be joking._

“What? It’s a valid answer! Gold is a color as well as currency,” Brynjolf says, crossing his arms. “Look at your daggers for an example. They’re a nice gold _color_.” Krosa rolls her eyes, trying not to smile.

“What about you?” It takes her a moment to realize what he’s asking, and Krosa feels her heart nearly jump out of her chest.

“I don’t have one.”

Brynjolf gives her a look. “Lass…”

“What?”

“You can’t ask a question you won’t answer yourself. It’s against the rules.”

Krosa blinks, and suddenly the room feels a little too crowded, her head a little too focused, and her skin a little too warm. It’s all she can do to keep her breath steady and face straight. “I was unaware there were rules.”

“There’s always rules.” 

“Well then, how can I follow them if I don’t know what they are?” Krosa asks with what she hopes was a casual shrug.

“Valid point, lass.” He pauses, eyes far away and calculating.

Krosa narrows her eyes. “You’re just making it up as you go, aren’t you?”

Brynjolf shrugs, an innocent look to his eyes. “What’s the harm in that? Different situations call for different reactions. I can’t plan for all of them, so it’s better to adapt to the situation than to try and take control of it.”

“I would say controlling it seems like a better idea to me.

“Well, that’s probably because you can actually _do_ that. How can a lowly thief like me do what a mighty warrior like you can do?” Krosa doesn’t like the sound of that. She doesn’t know why, exactly, but it doesn’t sit well.

“I wouldn’t say ‘lowly thief,’” she says, still not feeling any better about it.

“What then?” Brynjolf asks with a winning smile, “A dashing, _roguish_ , handsome one?”

“Actually, I was going to say incompetent.” Brynjolf bursts out laughing, a loud, barking sound. Krosa decides that she likes it. He’s not putting up any sort of front when he laughs like that, and Krosa finds herself wanting to smile. Maybe he really is more than what he seems. After his laughter dies down, things are comfortably quiet for a while, until Brynjolf breaks the silence again. 

“So you really don’t have a favorite color?”

Krosa shrugs. “I’ve never really thought about it. Never really had the time.”

“Well, you have time now, lass.”

“I do?” Krosa asks timidly.

Brynjolf crosses his arms and feet, leaning back against the table. “I’m patient. Think away.”

Krosa feels her gut twist, and a strange and unmistakable sense of being watched. Eyes boring into her, watching her every movement, knowing every thought. What if she can't think of anything? What would he think if she can't think of anything? Why did she ask such a _stupid_ and pointless question? Not that any others would have been better.

“What about getting to sleep early so we can leave before the sun rises?” she says, hiding her hands so he doesn't see them shaking.

“Not nearly as important as this.”

“How is this—”

“Krosa. Just do it.”

Krosa can't think of anything. Colors flash in her mind like a whirlwind, but still there's nothing. She can't even think of any names so she can make something up. “How can I? There are so many to choose from. How do I know I like one more than any of the others?”

“What color do you tend to lean towards the most?”

Krosa feels her heart drop. _Why is this so hard for me?_ “I don’t know, Brown? It’s mostly what I wear.”

“But do you actually like it, or do you just wear it ‘cause it’s what is available?”

She shrugs, biting her lip to keep it from trembling. _This is so pathetic._ Even a toddler could answer this— any child or person. She thinks of a color and cringes, but it's better than nothing.

"Pink." It was Hilda's favorite color.

"Pink? Brynjolf deadpans.

Krosa nods, not meeting his gaze.

Brynjolf narrows his eyes. "Okay. Why?

"It's… nice?" Krosa knows she's not fooling anyone. _I should have just said I didn’t have one. What’s wrong with me?_

Brynjolf’s quiet for a moment, and she can feel him studying her. “Well that won’t do. Give me a moment, lass. I may be able to help you.” Krosa risks a glance to see him staring at the ceiling, a serious look on his face before he looks down at her again. Krosa nearly jumps out of her skin, but he gives her no time to adjust. “I guess it calls to you in a way. Maybe there’s meaning behind it, or it reminds you of something else you like. There can be a lot of different reasons.”

Several minutes go by, and Krosa finally thinks of something… or at least, she hopes it’s something. Who knows if Brynjolf will count it or not. “What if I’m thinking of something but don’t know what the color is called?”

“What are you thinking of?”

Krosa hesitates. It involves a story, and Brynjolf prefers details— more than she’s ever willing to give. _But you’re trying to prove you trust him. Just get it over with._ Krosa takes a deep breath, gathering all her focus to this one moment in time.

“There— There was a time in Hammerfell when we left the mainland to go to an island called Stros M’Kai. We were on a ship when a storm came by. Everyone was terrified and tried to get me to go below deck… But I stayed where I was, gripping the railing with all my strength and gazing out at the churning waves,” she says slowly, before adding, “It was beautiful. _And_ terrifying, but… mostly—”

They were going to visit Nazir’s family: a sister, if she remembers correctly. He thought they could make a life there— thought, for a moment, that family and stability may not be so bad. Krosa was excited. The boat was huge, and she remembers—

“You weren’t scared of falling in?” Brynjolf asks, interrupting her thoughts; it takes her a moment to gather them and redirect them to the conversation at hand.

“I did fall in.”

“ _What?_ ”

“Someone saved me, but that’s not the point. I was— there was— I felt something, it was like it was calling to me in a way, like you said. It hit me then, how much I loved the sea. I don’t know why I felt it so strongly then.”

“Especially since it nearly killed you,” Brynjolf says, a trace of humor in his voice, but the look in his eyes doesn’t match.

Krosa nods absently, still picturing it. She doesn’t realize she’s grinding her teeth until she speaks and the pressure is released, “I can’t really explain it.” She leans back, not realizing how stiff and straight she became during the telling of the story. Remembering it all. “So what color would you call it?”

“Well, I would call it the color of a storming sea,” Brynjolf says matter-of-factly. Krosa kicks him lightly. “What?” he asks with a breath of laughter. “I’m being serious, lass! Sometimes there isn't any other name for something besides what it already is!”

“So whenever someone asks me that, I’m going to say ‘the color of a storming sea? Isn’t that, I don’t know… ridiculous?” Krosa asks, eyebrow raised.

“I would say it’s poetic.”

Krosa only rolls her eyes, then closes them and takes a deep breath.

Krosa can’t stop seeing the two men side-by-side and not knowing when one of them ends and the other begins. But Alesan is only a memory— a faded, dark form in her mind. Brynjolf’s here physically. She can still feel the warmth radiating off of him where they touch; Krosa lets out a breath of air she didn’t know she was holding as Alesan’s image fades, leaving only Brynjolf there, looking at her with an emotion she can’t decipher in his eyes.

“What are you thinking of?” Brynjolf asks quietly, looking almost as if he didn’t mean to ask in the first place.

“You remind me of someone.” 

“Oh?” Brynjolf asks, a smirk in his eyes.

Krosa shakes her head slowly, looking away. “It’s not a good thing… but I know you’re not him and I need to remember that.”

“There was a ‘him,’ lass?”

* * *

_“Why are you here anyway?” Krosa asks, tossing hay at him. After witnessing Alesan cry his brains out, Krosa no longer had the heart to turn him away any time he came for a visit. It’s actually nice to have someone help out with the chores, it gives her more time to just relax. She even showed him her favorite secret spot, and now they’re just laying there and chatting about nothing and everything. She hasn’t had anyone to talk to in forever. She hates to admit things seem just a little better when he’s near. Though, she tends to feel sick more often._

_“My family owns a farm,” he says, swiping the hay out of his hair and tossing it back at her half-heartedly. “And with the drought, things were getting tough. They needed money and Vander is pa’s cousin. They worked out an agreement.”_

_“What was the agreement? All I’ve seen you do is bother me,” Krosa says, rolling onto her back. Alesan stands, and Krosa barely has time to react before a pile of hay is dropped on her face._

_“They’re training me to fight in the arena for them,” he says as if he didn’t just accost her with far more hay than necessary. “Their last competitor died, and apparently arena fighters make a lot of money.” Krosa gets up, hay falling into small piles around her as she glares at him._

_“Why are_ you _here?” he asks softly, taking a seat again, a finger drawing lines on her arm._

_Krosa should have known he would ask that. She shoves his hand away._

_“Are those tears I see?”_

_“No,” Krosa says, but he looks doubtful. “Stop looking at me. Look over there–” He obeys– “Stop smiling.” His smile only grows wider._

_“You remind me of my sister,” he says, gazing out the window at the stars in the darkening sky. “She’s just as bossy as you are.”_

_“I’m not bossy,” Krosa harrumphs, yanking as much hay out of her hair and out of her clothes as she can._

_He shrugs.“If you say so.” It takes her several moments to get a hold of herself, and when she does realizes how close he’s gotten._

_“What are you doing?” she asks, her stomach immediately full of tumbling cotton. He is always invading her space, and Krosa hates it because she can’t stop looking at his lips or imagining him coming even closer._

_“I was thinking of kissing you,” Alesan says, voice hoarse._

_Krosa’s heart flutters. “Why?”_ And why now?

_“I want to… Don’t you want to kiss me?”_

_Krosa shakes her head, feeling her face getting warmer. “We shouldn’t. We’ll get caught.”_

_“That’s not what I asked.”_

_Krosa tries to think, to debate with herself on what she really wants, and what is worth the risk but he moves before she can properly form any sort of logical thought._

_His lips touch hers softly, one hand coming up to her face. Krosa doesn’t know what she’s supposed to do, so she copies his movement. Both their lips are dry and chapped, but she doesn’t mind and it doesn’t seem like he does either. It grows more and more insistent as he draws even closer, his hands wandering all over, leaving her skin tingling and longing for more. She’s never been touched this way before— never been touched with any sort of affection. Nazir would only ever place a hand on her shoulder or ruffle her hair, and even that was rare._

_She likes it._

_His lips on hers._

_His body’s warmth._

_She doesn’t want it to stop._

_When his hand finds its way under her shirt, she finally has enough sense to pull away._

_“I don’t want to get pregnant,” she blurts out: she’s too young, she doesn’t want a child, and she doesn’t know what Vander would do to her if it happened. Nazir told her how…_ this _works after she witnessed a couple in the wilderness. He told her how amazing it could feel, how normal it is, and Krosa has to admit that she’s always been curious. But he also warned her of the dangers of it._

_Alesan chuckles, stroking her cheek before giving her another kiss, this time making his way down her neck. “There are ways to avoid that,” he says, as he gives her body his full attention._

_Krosa nods and lets him have his way with her. It wasn’t as great as she thought it would be, but it wasn’t so bad either. They wake up before the sun that morning, with Krosa nestled against his warmth. When she tries to pull away, he pulls her right back to him, and she lands with a grunt._

_“Where are_ you _going?”_

_“It’s too hot for this,” Krosa groans, and the longer they linger the more likely it becomes that they’ll be caught._

_“For what? Cuddling?”_

_“Don’t call it that,” Krosa says, face flaming. She hates that word. Alesan laughs, but lets her go. She glares at him when he tries to watch her get dressed, and he laughs again before following her lead._ I’ll have to wash up before I get to work, s _he thinks, as she shakes hay out of her shirt. A day as hot as this one is bound to be gruesome. Especially with the memory of what they did that night. She blushes just thinking about it._

_“You know,” he says, with a mischievous smile, “we could run away.”_

* * *

“I don’t want to talk about it. I just thought you should know,” Krosa says, barely noticing how hollow her voice sounds, how thick and blurry the room before her gets. It gets harder to breathe, her throat constricting against invisible hands.

“That does help… put things in perspective," Brynjolf says slowly, and Krosa closes her eyes, not wanting him to see her struggle. “Krosa, are you alright?”

She doesn’t know what else to do, so she shakes her head before opening her eyes and pointing to the bottle of wretched, disgusting wine. “Can I have some more of that?” 

Brynjolf grabs it, giving it a shake. “All out, unfortunately, but I think I can swipe another one. I’ll be right —” he says, getting up, but Krosa stops him, hand on his leg.

“No, that’s okay. I’ll just—I don’t need it,” Krosa sighs. The longing and tingling still hasn’t left, and her head is buzzy. Who knows how much Brynjolf’s affected. The last thing she needs is a night of drunken fumbling and regrets. “We probably shouldn’t.”

“Alright...You can have the bed if you want, I’ll take the floor,” he says, helping her to her feet. She doesn't even try arguing. His hands are warm and the callouses scratch softly against her skin. She wonders if he can feel hers too.

“Goodnight,” Krosa says, dropping his hand and turning. She barely hears his reply as she collapses into bed. Even with how tired she is, she doubts she’ll get any rest tonight

* * *

The whole journey to Rorikstead is filled with random, short bursts of conversation and long bouts of silence. Etienne is sitting next to Brynjolf and already he seems better, sometimes joining in on the conversation, though sometimes saying things that make no sense. The healer told them to give it time, but whatever happened to him may have wholly destroyed his mind. Delphine will not be happy, but Krosa finds she cares even less than before.

Krosa can feel that the dragon’s strength has returned, but she also feels a sense of uneasiness, especially when looking at Etienne. She assumes it’s coming from the dragon, but he hasn’t replied to anything Krosa has said to it. It doesn’t bother her as much as she thought it would. After all, Brynjolf more than makes up for it.

Krosa had no idea Brynjolf had an affinity for beautiful things. Krosa isn’t entirely sure what that means, but hopes she has the right idea. It mostly shows in gems and jewels, or well-crafted clothes, but also poetry and art. His mother was fond of it as well. He speaks of her fondly, though looks sad every time he brings her up. Krosa can’t imagine anyone talking about _he_ r like that.

For all the information and conversation he gave her, she was only able to offer one tidbit of information. She’s starting to understand his aggravation when she doesn’t give him anything to go off of. But it still doesn’t feel right. She doesn’t feel ready. Anything she would be willing to tell him he already knows. _There’s not much to me, I guess_ — the fact never bothered her before.

“You can count me,” Krosa says after they drop Etienne off at the temple in Rorikstead— this time at his insistence. It comes out with no warning, but it kept tumbling around in her head, and Krosa didn’t know what else to do with it. _It’s better than nothing._

“What, lass?” 

“On your hand… if there’s room,” Krosa says, not knowing if she really wants him to understand or forget she said anything.

Brynjolf’s brow furrows as he holds the door open for her, before understanding dawns his face and he smiles, mirth in his eyes. “There’s a whole other hand, you know.”

Krosa scowls. “You know what I meant.”

“Aye, lass. I do. Thank you.”

The silence takes its turn, and this time Krosa is not comfortable with it. Brynjolf seems to be mulling something over, and giving her worried looks.

“You looked lovely at the embassy,” he says without warning after paying for their separate rooms. Krosa has no idea who he got the money from. “I didn’t dare say it then. But, since we’re being honest with each other–” he gives a small bow– “Though I have to say, I prefer your usual get-up. You look far more comfortable in it. I’ll see you in the morning, Krosa.”

He leaves her at the bottom of the stairs, taking them by two. Krosa just stands there, dumbfounded and flaming-faced. She can’t bring herself to be annoyed, and she hates it. Even if they’re not the same people— _Stop. Don’t even think about it._ She doesn’t want to deal with any of it. Krosa marches up the stairs, shoulders set and mind made.

She was afraid of this.

* * *

Brynjolf’s never felt lighter. He’s also never felt so unsettled before. It’s not a terrible feeling, but he can’t help but feel like he overshared— something he never does. _At least I didn't tell her everything._ Especially since she gave him so— _No._ She doesn’t owe him anything. In fact, after this he thinks that they’re even. Both of them know things they didn’t really want the other to know. _This is the strangest transaction I’ve ever been a part of._

But it’s also his favorite.

 _Stop it, go to sleep._ He can’t. There’s a noise in the room next to his— Krosa’s room. She may be having trouble trying to sleep too. Maybe they could make better use of this time if neither of them can sleep. Another noise sounds— he’s sure of it. He gets out of bed and goes to the door— _And what do you plan to do? What if you’re just imagining things?_

Oh shit. He didn’t think about that. _You’re right,_ he tells himself, and takes a seat on the bench, comforting himself with the thought that he’s just sleep deprived and his brain isn’t working properly. This is so unlike him. What even is this? Before he can come up with any theories, there’s a knock at the door. Brynjolf slowly goes to open the door, not sure if he’ll see what he wants to see or if it’s someone else entirely.

It’s Krosa.

“I can’t sleep.”

He tries not to feel anything, or look at her too intensely. Or imagine any reasons for why she’s here, and what they could do with their time. _What is wrong with me?_ He clears his throat. “Want to come in or—” 

“Leave. I want to leave.” It’s only then that he notices the panic. He steps out the door looking her over for any sign of the cause of her distress.

“Did something happen, lass?”

“No. I mean, yes— I don’t know, but I think— it’s hard to—” she shakes her head, “we should go. Please.” 

He studies her, all feelings of lust replaced with worry. There are so many things that could make her start acting like this. He wonders if he should push the issue, but the look in her eyes makes him wonder if _she_ even knows what’s wrong. “Okay. Let me grab my things.”

She follows him into the room, and he nearly tells her to go get ready before seeing she already has it all with her. She likely wouldn’t have taken no for an answer. As soon as he’s finished, Krosa takes the lead. Brynjolf forgot about Etienne and almost tells Krosa they’re going the wrong way. The streets are empty, and the world is quiet save for their footsteps crunching in the snow. Only one priest is awake and he thankfully asks no questions as he leads them to Etienne. He’s asleep.

“Do we wake him up?” Krosa asks, looking at the poor man like a disease.

“Etienne, lad, we need to get moving,” Brynjolf says, shaking the man’s shoulder. Etienne’s eyes fly open, and he sits straight up, head nearly colliding with Brynjolf’s.

“No, no, I don’t want to go,” he pants. “The end— the dragons. Doom— doom upon us all. They want to know. They want to—” He closes his eyes, body falling back down to the bed.

“Well that was interesting,” Brynjolf says, looking to Krosa. She doesn’t say anything, doesn’t look him in the eyes. _She knows something_. He recalls the Thalmor, the poison, and the names. “But there’s no point in wondering what in Oblivion that was,” he says, moving to drag Etienne out of the bed. “There won’t be any carts available at this time, lass,” Brynjolf says, wondering if this is another one of her ill-thought plans.

“I know. We’re walking.”

Brynjolf sighs, “Lass, horses would—”

“Or we can steal one. A cart, I mean.” Brynjolf doesn’t know whether to be proud or worried that she has no qualms about stealing so callously. This is not how he hoped his night would go.

“I think that will be easier said than done,” he says, regretting everything that led to this.

“But it can still be done.”

Brynjolf has nothing to say to that, so they go on with Etienne in tow. Krosa leads the way, walking a little faster than Brynjolf can keep up with until she disappears completely. Brynjolf grumbles, wishing he were in bed. But when he makes it to the stables, he sees Krosa has already secured the cart. _I’ll have to ask her how she did it later,_ Brynjolf thinks, grudgingly impressed. She helps him put Etienne on the cart, then he goes to get a horse.

He goes for the Clydesdale named Heather, if he read the carving correctly. An odd name, for a horse, but it’s not his place to judge. The options are slim, and for once Brynjolf feels bad about stealing a horse. _But if I leave her at the Whiterun stables, at least there’s a chance they can recover her._ He spares no more thought to it and gets to work.

“How’s your guild?” Krosa asks after they’ve been traveling for some time. She opted to sit in the back, and Brynjolf assumes she is scanning the area behind for any sort of threat. He tries to do the same up front, but it’s getting harder to stay awake. _Figures._

“Same as always,” he says, straightening, “All this will help,” he says, tilting his head to the pack beside Krosa.

“How’s Aiden?”

Brynjolf frowns. “You know, I’m not sure. I’ve been, well, not there, if you know what I mean. I plan to take him out on a job when I return. The poor lad probably needs it,” he says, then is graced with the thought of another thing that could make it all up to him. “I’m sure he’d be ecstatic if you ever wanted to come down for a visit.”

“I’m not so sure that’s a good idea.”

Brynjolf ignores the disappointment that finds its way to his stomach. It’s likely that she has no intentions of going back there ever again despite their tentative friendship.

“Last time he tried convincing me to give him a ‘stabbity class,’” she says after a pause.

Brynjolf smiles. “He did what?.”

“And that was after he gave me a bloody nose.”

_“What?”_

“He ran into the room as I was leaving and the door slammed into my face. You should have seen the look on his.”

“That boy is always in a rush,” Brynjolf says, shaking his head. _Is this to distract me, or is this her real reason?_ Brynjolf feels he knows the right answer, but hopes he’s wrong. “I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive him,” he says, trying to keep his voice playful and glances back at her.

Krosa rolls her eyes, but Brynjolf can see the hints of a smile.

“You know, I tried teaching him how to throw knives once. Nearly took my head off, but the lad can sure pick a damn lock.” She doesn’t say anything to that. Neither of them say anything for a while.

“I’ll visit when I can.” 

Brynjolf barely heard her, and then isn’t entirely sure if he heard her right. “Just let me know beforehand so I can be sure I’ll be there.” 

“Okay.” His hands tighten on the reins. He hopes that means it’s not an empty promise. He will never be sure with her.

“Have you run into any more of those Alik’r, lass?” he asks, cringing. But it’s been clawing at him, and he’s too tired to think better of it. _At least it’s not a personal question.., right?_

There’s a pause. “No. Have you?”

Brynjolf shakes his head. “They could have thought you fled and left Skyrim.” Which means she doesn’t have to worry about running into them anytime soon.

Krosa scoffs, “That would be nice, but it probably won’t be long till they come back, if they even left in the first place.”

“Why so grim and pessimistic?” Brynjolf asks with fake cheer.

“Honestly, I’d be surprised if Whiterun’s not completely destroyed by the time we get back with how my luck has been going.”

Brynjolf knows a thing or two about that. Delvin’s theory is starting to seem more likely. Or maybe it’s just the end of the world so everything’s going to shit. After all, no one really knows if the Dragonborn has been found yet despite the occasional rumor, and with whatever Etienne has been going on about, the idea seems to have spread to the majority of people. And he still has no idea what Krosa’s been up to.

“Things have really been that bad?” he asks, glancing back at her again to see a grim look on her face.

“You have no idea.” 

  
  
  
  



	12. When the Whistle Blows

AUTHOR'S NOTE

Hello! Sorry for the wait, but everything should be in order now! I thought I would try something new for the beginning of the chapter and was inspired by those cold opens in TV shows where you don’t know what’s going on then getting flashbacks to what brought them there. It doesn’t work exactly like that, and also I couldn’t think of any other way to write it so hopefully it works. I tried to do it all in the format, but that wasn’t really working, so hopefully it doesn’t feel too out of place...

* * *

* * *

  
  


They were traveling, him and her and— someone else? There was talking, a lot of talking. Then arguing, then running. _Running._ He remembers doing a lot of that, but was it before or after?

 _Trapped._ Is he still trapped? It’s possible— everything is possible apparently. Even the unspeakable.

 _Pain._ Unspeakable pain. Unbearable, night turning to day and day— is there a day anymore? He could have sworn he saw a bright light—

 _Awake._ He was awake, and the pain was fading. That’s right, he knew that. They were traveling: him and her and— _Brynjolf._ He was there. There was talking, a lot of— chatting. _Is that a word?_ It doesn’t matter. He was awake he—

Or did he only think he was awake? _Oh shit, that must be it._ He was dreaming. It was all a dream… but then where is the unspeakable pain?

 _Pain._ Unspeakable pain. Unbearable, night turning to— no. Not anymore.

 _Cold._ He’s still cold, he must be though he can hardly feel it, save for the biting of an appendage, what is it called again?

 _Hands._ Hands were on him, not mean hands for once, but nice hands. Helping hands, healing hands. Warm hands. What were the other ones called again?

 _Feet, wait. Running, that’s right._ He remembers doing a lot of that, but was it before or after— _No._ He already thought of that. 

_Have I been repeating myself this whole time?_

_“Who are you talking to, lad?”_

_It’s happening again._

_“What is?”_

Pieces, scattered. Scattered pieces. All the time, all the same. _No._ Something changed. That’s not the voice he got used to hearing— Brynjolf. That’s right. Brynjolf saved him, and there was another— _Wait. If Brynjolf saved me—_

Why is he here again, tied up in the dark and hurting?

* * *

Everything seemed normal at first, but it didn’t take them long to realize there was something wrong, something… _Damnit._ They travelled through the day, finally coming upon the city in the middle of the night. Brynjolf can’t remember what happened after that— his thoughts still slow and murky. He slowly opens his eyes. It’s too dark to take in his surroundings, and even if it was bright enough to see, Brynjolf doubts his brain would have been able to properly register anything. _What happened?_

 _“What happened?”_ someone asked that, someone—

_“You know, lass, maybe you shouldn’t have said anything.”_

_“What?”_

_“You jinxed it.”_ Brynyolf didn’t know whether to smile innocently or run with the look she was giving him. He did neither, she didn’t give him any time. That’s right. They tried to enter the city— or, more correctly— they tried to sneak in. There was a plan. Brynjolf gets to work on the binds on his hands.

_“You don’t have to come with me.”_

_“Nonsense, lass. How else do you propose to sneak in?”_

_“My thought was to ask.”_

_"How?"_

_“Nicely?” Krosa offers, and Brynjolf smiles half-heartedly._

_"We'll stick with my plan."_

He hears something— a quick breath and a soft groan. His eyes adjust just enough to see the form laying haphazardly in front of him. He gets through the binds.

“Krosa!” He goes to her, cradling her head in his lap and checking for injuries. There’s only a lump on her head, matching his own.

_“Are you sure this is a good idea?”_

_“Krosa. Remember that conversation we had about trusting me?”_

_“Fine. Sorry.”_

_“After you, lass.”_

They were ambushed. He remembers everything.

"I stand corrected, lass,” he says, pushing a stray strand of hair out of her face. She knew something was wrong since Rorikstead, and was riddled with anxiety the whole way. Brynjolf assured her it was probably nothing, thought that maybe she was misinterpreting what she was feeling. “Maybe you shouldn't trust me all the time." 

* * *

_Doom. Destruction, endless destruction, the end of all things. Things were fine, she was happy for a while, but she shouldn’t have been. She let herself get distracted. Brynjolf went down first, then came the hit._

_“That didn’t work?”_

_Then the cloth._

_“This should do the trick.”_

_There are so many shadows, swirling shadows, and one— the dark silhouette from before. Krosa knows it is. She can sense it, even if she doesn't know who or_ what _it is. She doesn’t want to, so she runs and doesn’t stop._

_“You’ve lost yourself again,” something far away says, voice not quite human, and too deep and gravelly to be comforting._

_“Stop crying. You know I don’t like to see tears.”_

_“I’m sorry,” Krosa cries, wondering why everything seems so big and she’s so small, “I didn’t mean to.”_

_“You’re a coward.”_

_“So pathetic.”_

_“Get a hold of yourself.”_

_“I don’t think I can.” There are so many voices._

_“Krosa—” She shakes her head, sinking to her knees._

_“I don’t think I can.”_

_“Krosa—” That’s Brynjolf’s voice. Why is he calling out to her? Is he in trouble, is he hurt?_ Why do I care? Wasn’t I angry with him? _She’s so confused._

 _Flaming rocks fall from the sky, crashing into the ground and sending her flying. More come, and Krosa’s thrown around like dust in the wind, not being able to stand. She doesn’t know how to get through this._ I need to run— no, hide. No. Fight.

 _Fighting. People are cheering._ Why are they cheering? _More blood spilt, another win, then another fight. She has to keep fighting. There’s only the fight, one after another. She cannot fail, she can never fail, not then, not now, not ever._

_Eyes, so many eyes— someone is watching. People are watching._

_People are screaming._

_“I can’t fail,” she says, to no one._

_“Then fight.”_

_She’s screaming._

* * *

Krosa’s eyes snap open, and she sits up, still screaming.

“Shh!” someone says from behind. “Shhh, Krosa, you’re alright,” the voice soothes, placing a comforting hand on her back as she struggles to breathe. Krosa recognizes the voice. She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. _How humiliating._ “It was just a nightmare. You’re safe— well, actually, that’s debatable at the moment, but I think you know what I mean.”

“What happened, where are we— oh my _head,_ ” she says, feeling the lump on her forehead and falling back down, bracing herself for the impact— but instead lands on something soft. Lap. Her head is in Brynjolf’s lap. 

“Sorry,” they both say at the same time, and Krosa sits up again. She doesn't ask. Silence ensues, eating up her insides. _Ugh. Why do things only ever get worse?_ First the nightmare, then _this?_

“Do you have nightmares often?” Brynjolf asks, and Krosa only glares. “Alright, bad question. How are you feeling— oh wait, let me help you with those.” His hands fall on hers, and it's only then that she notices the rope tying them together. 

“What happened?” she asks as he works at it, fumbling and swearing once before she feels the rope loosen.

”We tried to sneak into the city,” he says, helping her unravel it from her wrists. “Let’s just say, it didn’t go too well.”

Krosa remembers everything. They’re both quiet again, and Krosa looks around, searching for anything that can help them get out of this— then remembers something.

“Where’s Etienne?”

“I don’t know.”

“They took him,” a voice says, a cell across from theirs. She can see his silhouette slumped against the wall. “He was the first of you to wake.” Wait. Krosa knows that voice. 

“Balgruuf, What are you doing here?” she asks, getting to her feet and ignoring the spinning room in the process. It doesn’t work. Brynjolf helps her, and she then does her best to ignore him and his… presence as she tries to get a better view of Balgruuf’s cell; it’s not hard to. He’s strangely quiet.

Balgruuf sighs deeply. “I didn’t surrender soon enough, the reinforcements I asked for never came. Before I could arrange the meeting, Ulfric and his men found a way into the city. There was nothing I could say in my defense.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It wasn’t your fault,” he soothes, and Krosa tries to ignore the shame and embarrassment eating at her. It was her fault. If she had just been patient and waited out the siege like Brynjolf suggested, they wouldn’t be in this mess. She also saw Ulfric in Riverwood— he was likely making his plans even then. 

“Why did he attack? I thought you were neutral in the war.” 

“A lot has happened since you left,” Balgruuf says, and Krosa lets her head fall against the bars. The cell seems colder than before, the air heavy and stagnant.

“Does Ulfric know?” she asks quietly, not even sure if he heard.

“I didn't tell him anything… though it may be your only chance to get out of that cell.” She will never do that. Nothing could make her. Him knowing would surely give her cause to hate him. And she already hates him enough as it is.

“Does Ulfric know what, lass?” Brynjolf asks, nearly making Krosa jump. She forgot he was there. She spins to see him leaning against the wall on the opposite side of the cell.

“Nothing,” she snaps, then cringes. ”I’ll tell you later. Maybe.”

Krosa can feel his gaze and refuses to meet it. Or at least, she tried to. In her defense, it’s a little too dark to know exactly where his eyes were, and it was supposed to be just a quick glance, but now she can’t look away despite barely being able to see them. She has no idea what he’s thinking— _Should I just tell him?_ He likely has practice in keeping all sorts of secrets… But something holds her back.

Brynjolf breaks eye contact, stepping away from the wall and for a brief moment, Krosa’s terrified he’ll come closer. Instead he starts looking around the cell with purpose.

“Should we try to escape? I’m sure I can think of something,” he says as he moves around the cell rattling the bars and feeling around, voice a little too measured.

“There would be no point. Even if you did escape the cell, the Keep and city are crawling with them,” Balgruuf says, defeated.

 _“And to think he was so proud,”_ the dragon says, awake from his slumber, it seems. The dragon’s smugness is hard to miss. Krosa scowls.

“And you’re any different?” Krosa snaps back.

“Who are you talking to, lass?”

“No one,” she says aloud, then to the dragon _“Don’t surprise me like that.”_

_“You have no love for him, why do you defend him so strongly?”_

_“He—”_ Krosa starts, not knowing why herself. _“He helped me,”_ she finishes lamely.

_“Did he? Or was he only using you to help himself? Do you think he would have given you any special treatment if you weren’t Dragonborn?”_

_"Stop talking. Go back to sleep."_

_"I'm not saying it to get under your skin, but it's something you need to be aware of. There are a lot of things you can get away with as Dragonborn, but also a lot of things others will expect out of you."_

_“I said go back to—”_

“Krosa, are you alright?” Brynjolf asks, but Krosa doesn’t get any time to answer. Footsteps are heard, then a squad of soldiers come into view, the cells finally being lit from the flames of their torches. Krosa steps away from the bars and Brynjolf comes up beside her. 

“It’s a good thing we didn’t try to escape.” Brynjolf says quietly, and Krosa has to remind herself that he’s her friend and she shouldn’t kill him. The soldiers stop at their cell, and no one says anything as they unlock it, the door swinging open.

“You’re coming with—” one of them starts, before looking down at their hands, then back up at their faces.

“We weren’t trying to escape,” Brynjolf explains innocently, hands raised in surrender. “We were just uncomfortable.”

Krosa tries not to roll her eyes as the soldiers exchange glances. Then they all turn to look at her.

“Will you struggle or will you come peacefully?”

“Peacefully,” Krosa says, wondering why they’re even getting a choice. “We’ll go peacefully.” Brynjolf nods in agreement.

“Very well, but give us any trouble and you’ll regret it,” the leader says, while four of them enter and take hold of their arms. It takes all the control Krosa has not to rip out of their grasp, only scowling her discontent. She would have rather had the binds. Brynjolf glances at her once, but she keeps glaring ahead. She knows where they’re going, but she has no idea what to expect.

* * *

 _Whiterun is mine,_ Ulfric thinks as he looks out the window of Balgruuf’s— now his— office. He knew it would be, but still the triumph of victory flows heavily through his veins. Already his men have searched the keep and rooted out any servants still loyal to Balgruuf and the Empire.

 _The trebuchets came in handy_ , Ulfric admits, eyeing the large contraptions beyond the wall. He initially did not want to use them, but Jorleif insisted that Ulfric’s plans to starve the city out were far too risky to attempt. Not only would they have to deal with the harsh realities of winter, but if a dragon ever came upon them, they’d be toast.

However... part of him wishes he didn’t listen to Jorleif’s advice. His walk through the city comes to his mind. Fear and hatred were paramount in most citizen’s eyes, tainting the whole experience. Homes and livelihoods were destroyed, and he has no idea yet how many injuries or casualties there are amongst them. Besides, it seems Fate had already decided that he would win regardless. It was not trebuchets, his cunning, or army that ultimately let them into the city. It was Krosa. 

Ulfric smirks, fingers grazing the raised scar on his palm. He knew she would be useful, but didn’t expect any help so quickly, whether or not it was freely given. He picks up the report that came just that morning from his desk, reading through it again. There’s a knock at the door. Ulfric drops the paper. _She’s here._ He can only imagine how furious she is. He smirks.

“Come in,” he says, doing his best to hide his smirk from Krosa’s death glare. “Leave us,” he says to the guards. Krosa and the man with her stay in place, stick-straight. When it’s just the three of them, Ulfric says, “You certainly get around for someone who wants nothing to do with the war… First I got reports of the little scuffle in Solitude, you’ve given me not only riches, but valuable information as well, and _then_ you help me take control of Whiterun? I’m grateful, to say the least.”

“They were all accidents.” 

Ulfric laughs, then takes a seat at the desk. “I do appreciate the honesty, but if it weren’t for the report I’d have assumed you were trying to work against me. So tell me, why were you trying to sneak into the city?”

“I had a job to do and you were blocking the entrance,” Krosa says, crossing her arms.

Ulfric only smiles sharply. He knew she would be difficult, she always is. How this friend of hers can stand her, he does not know. “Who’s he? I remember him from the Butcher case, but we were never properly introduced.”

“A friend,” Krosa says, and Ulfric nearly has her escorted back to the prison right then and there.

“Brynnegan McCallister, Jarl Ulfric,” the man states with a slight bow, before he can really consider it. Ulfric doesn’t miss the glare Krosa throws his way, nor the shock on her face.

“That sounds like a Breton name,” Ulfric states, _and he’s no Breton._

“That’s because it is,” the man continues eloquently, a stark contrast to Krosa’s curtness. “My mother was Breton, and my father never earned a Nordic name, so we always went with hers."

His accent is certainly different. Ulfric’s heard something like it before at the docks, though it does sound a bit too polished and practiced— not to mention he looks more like a disheveled noble than a simple sailor.

“It seems you’re more suited for conversation, so maybe you can answer the question Krosa refuses to,” he says, gesturing to the scowling woman.

The man hesitates, glancing at Krosa before saying, “Unfortunately, I’m as in the dark as you. We ran into each other in Rorikstead.”

“It is unfortunate. I’m sure we could have worked out some sort of agreement,” Ulfric says, moving the papers around his desk as he searches for the dossier he found most intriguing. “And maybe we still could, after all it seems you have fought and bled for your findings.”

“Will you give _all_ of it back if I tell you?” Krosa asks, a challenge in her eyes.

“All of the jewels and… baubles, yes, but the dossiers are far too valuable to part with.”

 _“We—”_ Krosa starts, but Brynnegan stops her, whispering something in her ear. Whatever it is, she doesn’t seem to like it. “Fine,” he hears her finally grumble. Ulfric doesn’t know what to think about the whole exchange. Brynnegan doesn’t give him time to think anything.

“What if we only took some? A few of them were essential for the job, but the rest we can part with.”

“Unfortunately for you, Brynnegan, you’re in no position to negotiate. And I’ve lost my patience.”

 _“Bullshit—”_ Krosa starts, but Ulfric cuts her off.

“You’re lucky you have not yet crossed any lines yet, for if you did then I would _gladly_ punish you for your continued contempt and disrespect,” Ulfric says, getting to his feet, “and need I remind you of what happened in Riverwood? My patience only goes so far—”

A loud, grating sound fills the room, followed by heavy footsteps. Ulfric spins around to see a haggard-looking woman in strange armor and a look of grim determination on her face marching towards them. Ulfric makes a mental note to have his scouts search for any more secret doors within the Keep. The woman, despite all appearances, doesn’t seem interested in attacking him, but still, Ulfric reaches for his sword.

“Who are you?” 

“Someone who can help settle this dispute,” the woman says, crossing her arms and giving Krosa a pointed look.

“And how is that?”

“I heard you were searching for the Dragonborn to further your agenda, Jarl Ulfric.”

“And?” Ulfric scoffs, “I hope you don’t expect me to believe that _you_ are the Dragonborn.” And even if she was, Krosa has nothing to do with it.

“No, but _she_ is,” the woman says, gesturing to a startled Krosa, “and if I were you, I’d show her some more respect.” It takes him a moment to register what she said, then another to ensure that he heard her right.

"No. No, she can't be. He— She—" Krosa’s turned pale, and he can see her seething, grinding her teeth as she shoots the woman a death glare the woman fails to notice. Ulfric can’t believe it.

But it does make sense. 

All their interactions swirl through his mind. She is tougher than she has a right to be, stronger, faster and more capable than anyone he’s met. Not only has _he_ seen it, but his soldiers too. She fights like a storm— no. He can see it now, clear as day. She fights like a _dragon_ . Her temperament is scathing, her skills nearly legendary, and her golden eyes always carry a sort of fury— a fire within them. He always knew there was _something_ about her that made her different from the rest. _Talos preserve me, she_ is _the Dragonborn_ . _How could I not have seen it before?_ It’s etched into her very being.

 _Shit._ Damn it all to Oblivion, this changes everything.

Riverwood returns to his mind then, and he traces the scar on the palm of his hand. She finds a reason to hate him no matter what he does, their tempers are not suited for each other, and there's something else going on with her beneath the surface. How in Oblivion is he ever going to get Krosa… the _Dragonborn,_ to work with him?

* * *

 _No. No, she wouldn’t—_ It wouldn’t make sense. _Delphine_ was always the one going on about keeping everything between them, that they couldn’t trust anyone else. She wouldn’t throw it all out on a whim. Even though Krosa hates her, she knew Delphine always meant what she said.

But she did tell him.

_What is she planning?_

"Do you need some time alone to find your tongue, or do you think you'll get a hold of yourself before I lose my patience?” Delphine bellows, and Krosa closes her eyes, doing her best to breathe, hoping for the woman’s sake she is not talking about her. Ulfric answers, but Krosa can’t hear it.

There’s a buzzing in her ears, a burning cold prick of betrayal stabbing into her gut; dirty, mangled claws tearing each shriveled piece of her body in half again and again and again. Krosa digs her nails into her palms, trying to remind herself to keep standing. Be steady. Stay in control. The last thing that needs to happen is her going on a rampage.

"Whatever they recovered is of great importance in our mission to defeat Alduin. If you refuse—”

Just the _damned_ woman’s voice is enough to give her a headache. Why is the only person who could help her such a _bitch._ Why did Krosa even think that they could learn to work together? She liked Balgruuf well enough and Farengar. If Delphine didn’t shove her way into Krosa's path, then maybe they would have been the ones to help her. Maybe Krosa will kill her and find out if it’s still possible. Maybe after she spits on her cold shriveled corpse, Krosa can finally—

A hand brushes against hers, a breath tickling her neck. “You know lass, if you glare any harder, you’ll melt them both on the spot.”

And just like that, the ice melts and the fire is quenched. She didn't even realize how quickly it escalated. Krosa closes her eyes, unclenches her teeth and takes a deep, steadying breath. She then shoots Brynjolf a grateful glance, wishing she had told him everything in that cell. Then maybe all of this wouldn't feel so… hopeless.

"What do you think, Dragonborn? Does this woman speak for you?”

Krosa doesn’t know what the conversation’s about anymore, she doesn’t know what she’s agreeing to. She doesn’t care. Delphine can handle this, there’s no more damage she could do anyway. All Krosa wants to do is get out of this place— away from two of the living people Krosa hates the most.

“Yes,” Krosa says through gritted teeth. _Whether I like it or not._

“You look sick. Are you feeling alright?” Ulfric says, and Krosa only glares. That seems to be the question of the week.

“She was poisoned at the Embassy and is still recovering,” Brynjolf says for her, and Krosa tries not to be annoyed. _He’s only trying to help._

“Well then, I’ll have rooms prepared for each of you—”

“One room,” Brynjolf says quickly. “We’ll only need one.” 

_“Are you going to let everyone speak on your behalf?”_ the dragon asks as Ulfric raises his eyebrows, looking between her and Brynjolf. Delphine only scowls. Krosa looks away. It's not hard to imagine what dots she must be connecting. Delphine’s going to have a field day.

 _“You don’t need to criticize everything I do,”_ Krosa retorts, wishing he’d make it easier to like him because she still hasn’t even thanked him yet. And now she doesn't plan to.

_“If you actually did something, I wouldn’t have to criticize you.”_

Krosa doesn’t reply.

Ulfric calls in a servant and a group of soldiers to escort them to a room not far from where Krosa assumes his quarters will be. The whole way there, all Krosa sees is a blur, and all she feels is a hollowness carved into her stomach. _Ulfric knows._ When they’re finally alone, Brynjolf turns to her.

"Well, that was tense.”

Krosa frowns. "You're… not going to say anything?” 

"I believe I just did, lass,” he says matter-of-factly.

"Not— I meant— About— Ugh!” Krosa exclaims, turning to walk away. “Nevermind.”

"Wait— Hey, no no no, lass,” Brynjolf says, pulling her back to him. Krosa hates that she allows him to do it, and pretends not to notice when he doesn’t let go. “I was only trying to lighten the mood. It _was_ a little shocking but I had already suspected it, or at least… something similar.”

"What? How—"

Brynjolf smirks. "You put the names 'Alduin' and 'Dragonborn' on your list, lass,” he says, finally releasing her arm and collapsing onto the plush-looking settee. “And there were a few other hints.” 

Krosa blinks. "Oh. Well then why didn't you say anything?” she asks, cursing the Thalmor once again. There’s so much about that night that she wishes she could redo.

"We had more pressing matters to deal with and then it slipped my mind," he says with a shrug. "And you don't like too many questions.”

"You're… not mad?” she asks slowly, sitting down next to him.

"No. Why would I be?”

"The whole trust thing," Krosa says, sinking further into the settee.

"This is different, lass. Huge. I can see why you'd want to keep it a secret.”

Krosa studies him, trying to find a flaw or hint of a lie— anything to give her a reason to push him away. But she can't find anything, and immediately she feels herself soften towards him once again. For once, she doesn't hate herself for it, though… she cannot fathom why he's so patient with her. She doesn't know how to thank him, but finds her gaze wandering to his lips. He _would_ likely accept it as a—

“Is there something you wanted to talk about with me?” he asks, saving her from her own patheticness. It takes her a moment to get a hold of herself and realize what he’s talking about.

"Is what you told him true?" she asks, eager to be distracted from her traitorous thoughts. "Your name is— whatever that name was."

Brynjolf smirks. "No, lass. I was bullshitting him. Well, kind of. Half lies usually work the best.

"So—

"Brynnegan McCallister is a fake name, a stage name, if you will. All members of unsavory guilds likely have them. Some are known by others but most are kept secret. I probably don't know the real names of half my guild. I wasn't careful in my youth, so my name has long been associated with the Thieves Guild and there was no going back. 

"And your parents?" Krosa asks, storing the information away for later.

Brynjolf shifts, reaching for a bottle of mead on the end table that Krosa's seen him glance at several times. "My mother was only half Breton, and my father really never did earn a Nordic surname."

"Do you have a story to go with the name?”

Brynjolf grins, popping the bottle open. "I have several names with several stories, lass. There's Brynden the merchant's apprentice, Brynjor Far-Skies the traveler, Brynmorr the struggling artist, and Brynley the scrupulous investor. Then there's Brynnegan McCallister, the do-gooder noble who always helps the poor and down-trodden. The best one for you to be associated with, in my opinion. And then there's me, Brynjolf the thief."

"Nobody gets suspicious when they all sound the same?" Krosa asks as Brynjolf takes a drink, then offers her the bottle. Krosa eyes it warily. Delphine would kill her if— she takes it and quickly brings it to her lips, grimacing as she tries to swallow the foul liquid, eyes watering. She gives up and spits it back into the bottle.

"Well, you gave it your best shot, lass," Brynjolf says, grinning. "I take it you've never tried Nordic Mead before?"

"You actually _like_ that stuff?"

"Not really, though I'll drink it if it's all I got. I just wanted to see what you thought of it."

"Why?"

He shrugs. "Curiosity."

Krosa rolls her eyes, glaring at the bottle before giving it back to him, damn near willing to pray to the gods for the aftertaste to fade. Brynjolf places it back on the table, a thoughtful look on his face.

"I've actually met a Brynjor and heard of another lad who shares my name," he says, still not quite paying attention. "There's a lot of people out there, lass. And nobody else knows all the names. A few members of my guild only know about one or two."

"There's something you're not telling me," Krosa says, and Brynjolf flinches, then cringes.

"Aye, lass, there is. It's personal and… kind of embarrassing—" he starts, but Krosa stops him, placing her hand on his arm.

"You don't have to tell me. I was just… curious."

Brynjolf's lips twitch into a smile. "I will one day. I'm sure you'll get a kick out of it. But you'll have to tell me something embarrassing about yourself too or else I may never recover."

Krosa smiles, then removes her hand. They sit in silence for a while, Krosa wishing she could be as comfortable with it as she usually is. But they’re a little too close for that. The warmth radiating from his body is both agitating and soothing.

"On a more serious note, lass," he says, startling her. “How is— What— Being Dragonborn… I- I'm sure you know what I'm trying to ask.” 

Krosa sighs. "It's… not great. I had a hard time believing it at first. I was even going to leave Skyrim for good.”

"Well, I'm glad you didn't,” Brynjolf says, and Krosa’ able to muster up a half-smile. “How many dragons have you killed?” he asks with boyish-curiosity. Krosa rolls her eyes.

“Four.”

“Four already?”

Krosa shrugs. “I had help.”

“Help or no help, lass, you got to see a living, breathing _dragon_ — well, not quite so living and breathing anymore, I suppose,” Brynjolf says, drifting off for a moment before refocusing. “In any case, I _never_ thought they ever existed!”

“You’re not the only one,” Korsa says, trying to think of any times when she heard stories of them. She never really put time into deciding whether or not they were real. Delphine admitted after they slew the dragon in Kynesgrove that even _she_ had a hard time believing in them in her youth. To her, they were just a symbol meant to instill fear and obedience in the hearts of men and mer.

_“She’s not completely wrong, you know. Those stories came after a time of being enslaved to us. Mortals have a tendency to forget things that are too painful to bear, so soon we faded into nothing but a symbol of power and fear.”_

Krosa wonders then, whether she should tell him about the part where the dragons are not _quite_ dead and gone yet. And that one of them she may consider a sort of friend or mentor-like person. _Dragon_ , she reminds herself, _he’s a dragon, not a person._

_“What does that make you?”_

Krosa flinches. _“What do you mean?”_

 _“If dragons aren’t capable of acting or feeling like…_ people _do, what does that make you?”_

_“I don’t understand.”_

_“You’re more dragon than human and everytime you absorb one of our souls that becomes more and more true. By the time you defeat Alduin, there’d barely be any_ human _left in you... Remember your fit of rage with Ulfric?”_

 _“What about it?”_ Krosa asks darkly. She does _not_ want to be reminded of that day.

_“There’s a reason why you can’t remember what happened.”_

_“I lost control.”_

_“Yes, and something else took over.”_

Krosa blinks, and the dragon is gone, having left behind a path of burnt embers and ashes in her mind. What is the last thing she remembers from that fight? The axe. That was it— she saw the axe. Something _did_ come over her then, something furious and twisted, and— there was blood on her hands. 

* * *

_Time seems to slow as Krosa’s hand tightens around the axe. Fire flows like blood, her heartbeat thuds in her chest as something in her ignites._

_A fire that’s not her own._

_Her body lunges at Ulfric with a savage swing, barely missing his face as he dodges out of the way, true fear on his face as her body attacks relentlessly, fueled by an otherworldly being. Dragon blood pumps through her veins, burning and empowering, his every breath and curse only fanning the flames._

_“Krosa, what are you doing?” he shouts, grabbing hold of her arm and trying to wrestle the axe out of her grasp. When it doesn’t work, he simply wraps an arm around her neck tightly, squeezing the air out of her. It is then that she notices the blood— in her blind rage, she didn’t even notice all the times the axe grazed him._

_Her bloodied hand goes limp, and the axe falls from it. It’s only then that Ulfric releases her, it is only then that she’s back in control and gasping for breath._

_“What happened?” she coughs out, looking at her hands in horror. It all went so confusing and_ wrong _so quickly. Ulfric gives her a confused look before something in his eyes hardens. Then everything goes to black._

* * *

“And I can't even begin to imagine how much pressure you must be feeling. It would be the _literal_ weight of the world… Krosa?” His voice is far away, but she knows he’s all too close for this.

Krosa gets to her feet, stumbles, and crashes into something. Something shatters. Something breathes— inside of her. They’re watching. Waiting. For her to slip. She feels sick. Her head is spinning. There is no up or down anymore, just endless drifting. Spinning out of control.

“...something I said?” 

Krosa tries to concentrate on him, to ignore the vibrations in her head. Tears sting her eyes as she struggles to breathe again. What if it takes control of her again? Right now, right here, and she comes to her senses to see Brynjolf’s blood on her hands? She tears herself away from him and his helping hands, but trips and crashes to the floor.

“Go away. Leave me alone, I don’t want you to—”

What a sight she must be. She doesn’t even have enough energy to be embarrassed as she curls within herself, focusing all her attention at keeping the dragons at bay. Maybe it’s a good thing he sees her like this. He can finally see how big of a mess she really is— finally understand why he never should have bothered with her in the first place. He’ll leave and be safe and she can go back to how she was. She misses those days, before this place had sucked her dry. They were simpler, easier.

But he doesn’t. He comes closer, his warmth invading her senses, and places a hand on her back. It’s a different warmth than what she’s used to, not burning like fire or scorching like the sun, but comforting. Tears leak from her eyes, wholly unwelcome and all the more humiliating. How did she lose control and turn into such a disaster so quickly? Why can’t she just be normal and _not_ break down every other gods-damned day? Why did _Brynjolf_ have to witness it?

“It’s okay, Krosa. Breathe. Just Breathe, I’ve got you,” he says, arms snaking around her.

“What are you doing?”

“It’s called a hug, lass… It’s something people do when—” She elbows him, and can feel his huff of laughter. Despite everything in her telling her not to, Krosa finds herself leaning into his embrace.

“What’s wrong with me?” 

“Nothing, lass. You’re just panicking.” If only that was all it is. He doesn’t even know the half of it. A new wave comes then, crashing into her and leaving her gasping for breath as she tries to fight the current. To find herself above the churning waters pulling her further and further away from the shore and deeper into the depths of the sea.

“How do I stop?” 

“Focus on me.”

It’s the last thing she remembers doing.


	13. Two Sides of the Same Monster

_ “Whose side are you on?” Mirmulniir asks, cornering Krosa. All she can see is the yellow of his eyes and the faint gleam of dark red scales. The rest of the world is black. When Krosa speaks, the voice is not her own. _

_ “I thought that would be obvious by now.” Wait. That was  _ her  _ dragon.  _ What is going on?  _ She’s not in control of any of this, but it doesn’t feel like just a dream. _

_ “You’d betray your own kind so easily?” Mirmulniir rages, “She has taken  _ everything  _ from us! We cannot even speak in our own tongue!" Thoughts that aren’t her own— a rage that isn’t her own. Krosa’s almost trembling with it, suffocating with it. Burning. Buildings crumbling, flesh rending, world breaking. Rage. _

_ “If it bothers you so much, then stop talking,” her dragon says, sneering. Krosa latches onto his presence, the only thing that’s familiar. This must be his doing— his eyes she’s seeing through. But it’s not his rage she’s feeling. _

_ Mirmulniir glares darkly. “You’ve been in her company for too long. You’re starting to act like her. The plan was to gain her trust long enough for us to take over. You promised you would not fail again.” _

_ But he didn’t fail, Krosa can feel that as clearly as she can feel her own anger and doubt. Their minds are one— he told her about this but also warned her against doing it, so why did he pull her into this now? She tries to leave, to take control, to take from him what he takes from her. But she can’t see everything… or maybe there is no answer to find.  _

_ “I won’t fail because I won’t do it. That’s not what I want anymore,” he says, confirming her thoughts.  _

_ “Then what  _ do _ you want?” Mirmulniir asks, and Krosa finds herself wondering the same thing. Even when sharing her dragon’s mind, he is a mystery. _

_ "It is not something that concerns you." Krosa simmers with the red dragon, but it lasts only a moment. Mirmulniir doesn’t reply and in a blink his hulking form is replaced with a smaller, golden dragon.  _

_ It hits her then that she never saw anything but his face before. It’s certainly not the massive, terrifying beast she remembers. Instead, he’s twisted. Deformed in some way, but in the darkness it’s hard to tell just how bad it is. Does he look like this because of how he died in Falkreath? _

_ Krosa is bursting with questions and accusations, but she shoves them aside. Right now, that’s not what is important. Right now, Krosa needs to know what he’s been planning this whole time. Krosa needs to know if she’s been a fool to trust him. _

_ “Why did you show me this?” Krosa asks, looking him in the eyes, startled by her reflection in them. It stares back at her, peering into her own soul. _

_ “I wanted to explain,” the dragon says, shaking her from herself. _

_ It takes Krosa a moment to remember her anger. “So you did try to get me to kill Ulfric?” _

_ “It would have been him then yourself.” _

_ Krosa narrows her eyes. That doesn’t make sense. None of this makes sense. Why are they able to control her when she’s the one who killed them and absorbed their souls? Why can’t they just die and stay dead— but if they did, Krosa would have died or been imprisoned at the Embassy. The dragon was the one who fought off the poison, and Krosa’s not sure it would have worked the same if she was on her own.  _

_ Why can’t anything ever be simple or easy in her life? _

_ “Why are you telling me this now?” Krosa asks, crossing her arms. “What changed your mind?” _

_ “You’re not… upset?” _

_ “No. I’m pissed." Saying it makes her even more pissed. She can sense fear, sorrow, and shame. Krosa relents. "But you did save my life.” Though, he still has yet to tell her why. “So, what changed your mind?” _

_ He's silent for several moments, and when he does speak, it sounds almost distant, “I’m not sure. All I know is that I could not follow through with it.” _

_ Krosa narrows her eyes. “How do I know you won’t turn on me and start working with the other dragons again?” _

_ “I will keep doing what we did tonight. My mind is yours as yours is mine.” Krosa can feel the promise, the truth. He’s being honest. He wants to help. Krosa doesn’t know if she likes being able to read him so well.  _

_ “I thought you said I would lose control myself if I did anything like that.” _

_ “In this case, it would be willingly on both sides. The only way to lose control is if something else were to interfere, but even that can be corrected.” _

_ “How do you know all of this?” Not even the Greybeards seemed to know of this. If they did, they would have told her… right? _

_ “I’m not sure. The others knew nothing of it until I told them, and then they needed proof.”  _

_ An elf beneath her: a fight, a shield. A severed head. A lack of feeling. She didn’t know what came over herself then. It was completely unnecessary— but it was the same anger. The same lack of control. She had assumed it was her own brutality, nothing but her own pent up frustration and desperation. Her own fear.  _

_ Krosa has a hard time deciding if she’s more comforted or horrified. If that’s true, then— _

_ Everything is screaming not to trust him. His offer of control is still not a guarantee but his ability to control is. She has no idea how to do it, and whatever he taught her could be used to benefit him instead. What if he’s lying and waiting for her to do it before acting? But… they just did it and he didn’t try anything. If he wanted to betray her, now would be the time to do it. He’s telling her everything, offering her control over him.  _

_ Dragons hate to submit. It goes against their very being. They crave power and they will do whatever it takes to get it, even turning on each other. There’s no time for emotion. There’s no room for trust. Krosa felt like she could trust him before, and he was playing her the whole time.  _

_ There are so many risks, so many what ifs. Everything could go wrong so quickly and she wouldn’t even realize it until it’s too late. He could change his mind again— what’s keeping him from doing so?  _

_ “I don’t think I can trust you fully until I know what you get out of helping me,” Krosa finally says. The dragon tilts his head, a thoughtful look to his eyes. It seems almost human then. _

_ “There is something you can help me retrieve.” Krosa raises an eyebrow, urging him to go on. “My memories. I still have no recollection of anything, not even how I died the first time.” _

_ And there it is again— a connection. A reflection. A plea. Something worms it’s way inside her, slithering, soft and unwanted. It’s uncomfortable, really. The sympathy. The understanding. The want to help. Krosa hates it. _

_ “The other dragons don’t know it?” she asks, already knowing the answer. All of the plots, all of the plans race through her mind just as she asks. Even among his own kind, he’s an outsider. _

_ “If they did,” he says slowly, “they never told me.” _

How convenient, _ Krosa thinks. Everything about their relationship is convenient... but maybe it’s not suspiciously so. Brynjolf comes to her mind, and already she feels herself relenting. Maybe it is about time for her to start taking risks, but this one… it could be disastrous. She’ll have to be more aware of herself now, learn how to recognize and stay in control of her emotions. Which means actually  _ feeling  _ them. _

_ The thought makes her grimace. She misses Cyrodiil. She doesn’t remember having any strong or complicated emotions, nor any desire  _ to  _ feel them. There was nothing there. Her life was so easy. Her days were a blur, her mind was blank… her heart was empty.  _ Not helping,  _ she says to herself. That’s not the direction she wants to go in. _

_ It was simple, being alone and not caring about anything. _

_ It was awful. _

_ Krosa takes a deep breath. “Alright. How do I do it?” The dragon regards her for a moment, his gaze hungry. Krosa looks away.  _

_ “I do not know, but I awoke near a fortress on a mountain. There may be some clues there. Surely my name, at least, will mark my burial site. My story should be there as well, but I find that is less likely.” _

_ Krosa nods, considering her options. Mountains are everywhere in Skyrim, as are fortresses on mountains. She wouldn’t even know where to— Her eyes widen. Falkreath. This is the dragon she fought in Falkreath. That’s right: this dragon was the one that killed Sinding and— Krosa shakes her head. She can’t focus on that— that doesn’t matter right now, no matter how sick the thought makes her feel. _

_ “Traitor.” Krosa freezes and spins around, coming face to face with Sinding. He’s still bleeding from his chest, his colorless eyes depths of despair. “I can’t believe you’d do this to me.” _

_ Krosa doesn’t know what to say, so she just stands there. Stares. _

_ “She’s luring you. Do not take the bait,” her dragon warns, coming up behind her. But it feels all too real, and she cannot take her eyes away. _

_ “You’d pick a  _ dragon  _ over me?” Sinding asks. “I thought we were friends.”  _

_ Her heart clenches. “Sinding—”  _

_ “No, don’t reply. Turn away.” _

_ “I loved you, I always have. Why couldn’t you love me too?” _

_ A flood of memories. A flood of emptiness. Krosa tries to come up with a reason, tries to hold onto something to remember him by. But Krosa can’t even remember the color of his eyes. That fact is now staring into her soul, creating holes where nothing lies.  _

_ What kind of person is she? Sinding and Barbas were her friends. Why does she keep forgetting that? They relied on each other for a while. It wasn’t long, but surely there should have been  _ something.  _ With Brynjolf, there was always something. So why can’t it be the same with Sinding? _

_ “You only feel this way because he’s dead. What you’re feeling is more of an obligation than a truth,” her dragon says. Finally, Krosa turns away from Sinding, fixing her gaze on the dragon instead. Something is bubbling below the surface, something hot and putrid. _

_ “He died saving me from  _ you.”

_ “I lost control,” the dragon says calmly. “You know what that’s like.” _

_ “Because of  _ you!”  _ Krosa shouts, nearly panting from the effort. She can’t believe this. Why did she ever think she could trust him? It’s clear that a dragon can never truly understand people. They can never feel love or sympathy or pain. All they can do is crave. All they care about is themselves, nothing more, nothing less. All they care about is what they can gain. _

_ “Then what does that make you?” _

_ “Coward.” _

_ “I never wanted any of this,” Krosa pleads. “I never wanted you or your help.” She doesn’t know who she’s talking to anymore. She doesn’t know which thoughts are her own. She doesn’t know whose voice is whose.  _

_ “This is  _ her _ , Krosa, or  _ them _. It isn’t—” _

_ Krosa covers her ears. “Stop talking. I don’t want to hear it.” She needs to concentrate. She needs to breathe. She needs to wake up. _

_ “Focus on me.” _

* * *

When Brynjolf wakes up the next morning, he finds himself in a… compromising predicament. After Krosa passed out, he moved her to the bed and relieved her of her armor and shoes. He was going to leave it at that— but it was obvious that her dreams were no more pleasant than her panic attack. He decided to stay, asking an unconscious Krosa for permission and taking an incoherent mumble as a yes. There were no chairs, only the bed. He didn’t take any liberties and kept his distance, leaving a good eight inches between them.

In hindsight, he should have just left her as is, because not only is she now nestled firmly within his arms— one of which is painfully numb, but the woman who outed Krosa to Ulfric decided to come and wake her up bright and early. She was not happy with what she found, and Brynjolf let her believe the obvious. He doubts the alternative would have been any better.

After convincing her to let Krosa get her sleep, the woman stormed out, and now he can’t erase certain thoughts from his mind. No amount of ' _ Get your mind out of the sewer'  _ helps. He also doesn’t want to move for fear of waking her, so he stays where he is, uncomfortable and stiff as a board.

_ Why do I always get myself into these kinds of situations? _

Luckily for him, it doesn’t take her long to start waking up. He decides the best course of action is to pretend to be asleep. He feels her move, shifting closer to him before tensing and whipping around to face him. Then she groans and falls back into place for a moment before rolling out of bed. He hears her move around the room as she gathers her things, then softly closes the door leading to the sitting room.

Brynjolf only opens his eyes after the pinpricks in his arm starts to fade and he can move it normally again. There’s no trace of Krosa left in the room. Good. Now he can move, he can breathe, he can  _ think. _

The Dragonborn. Krosa. In his arms. He can still feel her warmth. He can still feel where she was, but the embers of the feeling is not enough. He wants to be consumed by the fire. The flame licking at his—

_ By the Nine, Bryn, get a hold of yourself.  _

He slides his hands down his face, doing his best to relax. To banish these thoughts. To numb all feeling. He promised Krosa he would stop toeing that line, he was starting to accept  _ never crossing _ that line, so why can’t he stop? 

Slowly, he drags himself out of bed. Krosa likely didn’t linger, but just in case he is going to take his time. A washroom is connected to the bedroom, and it only takes him a second to make the decision. 

Everything about the rooms Ulfric gave them screams privilege. But, if the extravagance from the other rooms weren’t enough, the washroom even has dwarven plumbing within it, the water pouring out from a pipe above the tub after pulling a lever. He’s heard about such a thing starting to surface, but thought it was only the wild dream of an inventor. It seems being proven wrong is something of a recurring theme of his.

Raised voices can be heard, and Brynjolf is glad he decided to take his time. It’s not hard to guess who the voices are coming from, and his presence wouldn’t help Krosa in the least. He sighs.

Brynjolf tries to let all thoughts and worries drift away as he bathes, letting the cool water seep into his skin. He needs to relax. But he can’t. Everything is so complicated, so different, and so  _ uncomfortable _ . Especially whatever is happening with Krosa. It’s going to places he’s never been before and making him remember things he hasn’t had to deal with in  _ years. _

The memories invade him mercilessly— memories of all those times his mother would fall violently sick for days or his father would have one of his violent rampages. What happened with Krosa is not all that different. But it’s not her fault— and it’s not the same. She’s the gods-damned  _ Dragonborn,  _ for shit’s sake. All that pressure and responsibility would crush anyone.

Immediately, he’s ashamed.

She’s the Dragonborn, for shit’s sake.

_ Ok, Bryn. Clearly you have an issue with that,  _ he tells himself, turning his focus to solving whatever problem  _ that  _ is. The last thing Krosa needs is him not being able to accept what she is. If he uses his logic, then he would attribute it to shock. But if he were Vex, then he would think that it emasculates him and he’s somehow bothered by her importance or strength or… something. But, it’s quite the opposite, really.

The thought doesn’t help. Now he can’t stop picturing Krosa—  _ No.  _ Brynjolf groans, sinking further into the water. This is going to take a while.

* * *

“You can’t force me to be his Thane!” Krosa snaps, about ready to strangle Delphine. 

Krosa had  _ hoped  _ to get some time to herself to think before needing to face anyone. Krosa had  _ thought  _ she deserved to have a moment of peace and quiet. But it seems that will  _ never _ happen. She’s trapped as the Dragonborn; she woke up trapped in Brynjolf’s arms, and now she’s trapped in this  _ damned  _ argument with this _ damned snake  _ who is in Krosa’s room, sitting in Krosa’s chair, and eating Krosa’s  _ damned  _ food.

“From what I’ve heard that’s exactly what Balgruuf did,” Delphine snaps back, and Krosa stops her pacing to whirl on her.

“That was different.  _ He  _ wasn’t even involved in the war.” 

“That’s because he never cared enough to get involved!” Delphine retorts, getting to her feet. “Look, I may not agree with Ulfric, but the war needs to end and he’s a much better option than the Imperials at the moment.”

Krosa scoffs. “So now you’re trying to drag me into the war? If that’s something you two agreed on—”

“You _did_ give me permission to speak for you.” 

“For that one instance!” Krosa says, nearly pulling her hair out. “And that was only because  _ you  _ gave me no other choice!” And Krosa was tired of her shit. She’s tired of everybody’s shit. The world is  _ full  _ of shit.

Delphine crosses her arms. “If you wanted to be involved in decision-making, you should have been there instead of doing who knows what with your man-whore!”

Krosa baulks, “He is  _ not _ —”

There’s a knock at the door.

“ _ What? _ ” they both snap. It opens, and a soldier peeks his head inside.

“Ulfric would like to speak with the Dragonborn. Alone.”

Krosa stiffens. She can’t decide what’s worse. Both options are less than stellar, but at the moment Ulfric isn’t the one who's got her worked into a frenzy. Though that’s likely to change as soon as he speaks. He’ll want something, that’s for sure.

_ “You don’t have to give him anything.” _

Krosa scowls and heads for the door.  _ “Don’t talk to me.” _

The soldier doesn’t say a word to her as he leads her to the office, and Krosa is glad that not everybody is out to get her today. Well, save for Brynjolf. Krosa feels her face get warmer. That’s a different problem altogether.

Waking up to him wasn’t entirely… unpleasant. But knowing that he witnessed her at her weakest is. So far she’s managed to keep those moments to herself, the only thing coming close would be her trying to kill Ulfric. And that’s something completely different. And  _ that’s  _ what she should be thinking about right now. Krosa takes a deep breath, then opens the door.

“What do you want?” Krosa asks as it closes behind her. Ulfric is looking out the window, turning quickly at her abrupt entrance. He recovers just as quickly.

“It seems you and Delphine get along well,” he says lightly, “I could hear the shouting from here.”

“If you only brought me here to gossip, I’m leaving.” Krosa has no time for this, despite not having anything in particular she needs to do. Just looking at him makes her wonder if she should have just stayed with Delphine.

“I wanted to apologize for before,” Ulfric says, going to the desk in the middle of the room. Krosa eyes him suspiciously. Just yesterday he was sitting there, toying with them, talking down to them,  _ threatening  _ her. She crosses her arms.

“Apology not accepted.”

To his credit, he seems to have expected an answer like that. "Maybe these would be something you would like to accept,” he says, reaching somewhere behind the desk and handing her the two packs he took from them.

" _ Everything _ is in there?” Krosa asks, wondering what angle he’s playing at.

"No. All the… jewelry is there,” Ulfric says and Krosa wonders if he suspects how they got it. There is only one viable explanation for why they have so much of it. “But Delphine and I went through the dossiers, she took what was relevant to your mission and I took ones containing sensitive information regarding my war efforts. I do not know why you'd want the rest of this, but since you're so adamant about it...” he trails off with a shrug.

Krosa eyes the bags suspiciously. Delphine never mentioned that she retrieved any dossiers. If anything, Krosa would like to know which ones she took. She never did get the chance to look through any of them. Delphine likely wouldn’t have let Ulfric even  _ look  _ at any of the ones she wanted. Krosa has a feeling hers are included. Delphine likes to use whatever she can against her. Whatever Ulfric has would have nothing to do with her, but he likely already knows most of the information that was on there anyway. He knows far more than she would like.

"I remember what happened in Riverwood,” Krosa blurts out. 

Ulfric blanches, mouth working as he tries to think of something to say. Krosa assumes her reaction is about the same. She doesn’t know where that came from. Krosa doesn’t know what happened to her anger. And now, there’s also the question of whether it really  _ was  _ her anger. But she can’t go around blaming the dragons for everything she does that she doesn’t like.  _ I hate my life. _

"What of it?” he asks finally, one hand closed tightly into a fist. Krosa knows what’s on that hand— the palm, in particular. Thankfully, that was the worst of the wounds she gave him.

"You lied,” Krosa says, lowering the packs to the ground. They’re only weighing her down. “Why?”

He looks at her then, and Krosa sees something she’d rather not see. "Believe it or not, Krosa. I'm not the monster you think I am.” 

Krosa pauses. ‘Monster’ may be pushing it… but it’s not far off from what she was thinking. Besides, even if he was a monster, what would that make her? He didn’t even try to kill her when given the chance, and that was after she tried to kill  _ him  _ for no good reason.

"I tried to kill you. Why didn’t you kill me?” she asks, scrutinizing his every move. He even told her he would have if she tried to. What was the point in lying about that?

"As you said yourself, you lost control,” he says as if that excuses everything. "It's not the first time I've seen such a thing happen. After the war, I knew a soldier who had something similar happen to him. The man wasn't the best of fighters, but it still took three of us to hold him down and snap him out of it, and the damage was already done. The horror of the act nearly drove him to kill himself out of shame."

"What happened to him?” Krosa’s never heard of anything like that happening before.

"We held him in a modified cell and had healers take care of him until we deemed him no longer a threat to society or himself, then we let him go. ”

"And it hasn't happened again?”

Ulfric frowns, taking a seat at the desk. "It's impossible to know for sure. He was no longer allowed in the ranks of soldiers or guards, so I haven’t kept tabs on him."

Silence ensues. Krosa doesn’t know what to say. Krosa doesn’t know what to think about any of this. She doesn’t know what to feel. When it becomes apparent neither of them are going to say anything, Krosa picks up the packs.

"I do have one more question before you leave," Ulfric says, smirking. "And possibly follow-up ones depending on your answer."

“Alright.”

"The group of people who are trying to hunt you down, are they still a problem?"

“Why?” Krosa asks, eyes narrowing.

“You’re the Dragonborn, Krosa. Your protection is paramount.” When Krosa glares, he adds, “I am not implying you’re incapable in any way. It doesn’t matter who you are or what you can do, so don’t make a fuss over it.”

"I don't know,” Krosa says, biting back her pride. “I haven't really had time to look into it."

Ulfric nods, shuffling papers on his desk. "When we took over Falkreath, I heard about a group of Alik'r warriors who—”

"How did you know it was them?”

Ulfric only gives her a look. "I didn't. I was going to ask, but now it seems I don't even need to finish. You know what I'm going to offer."

Krosa does. He offered it to her before, but this time it’s even more tempting. She had hoped they’d given up. What’s even the point in hunting her down anymore? If it’s not the law hunting her down, then it would be a rogue group of some kind. But surely no one  _ actually  _ misses the Da’Vam clan. The only people left in the clan are those Vander would also extort and exploit. Even his friends were enemies.

"And what would it cost me?" Krosa asks to buy herself time to make up her mind.

Ulfric smirks, leaning back into his chair. "As I said before, I wanted to apologize. Are you sure you do not wish to accept it?"

Krosa frowns. Of course he would find a way to needle her while offering her help, and it shames her to admit that she nearly refused him right then and there out of nothing but spite. There is no good reason to refuse, unless...

“I won’t have to join you or anything?” Krosa asks, shifting her grip on the packs. They’re heavier than they have a right to be.

It takes Ulfric several moments to answer. “Honestly, I would prefer it if you did. This war needs to come to an end sooner or later, and I know for a fact that with you on my side, it would be sooner.” Krosa opens her mouth to refuse. “However, it is not required. This is an apology, Krosa, nothing more and nothing less.”

Krosa closes her eyes and considers it. She wishes she could say there’s no good reason for him to offer her this, but this isn’t like their first transaction. Him trying to win her over makes more sense now, but still, Krosa can’t stand the idea of working with him.  _ But you don’t have to. _ She can take his offer and leave like she did back then.

“I— I need time to think.” 

“By all means, take your time. Though I have to admit I don’t understand what there is to consider.” 

Krosa ignores him and leaves.

* * *

There are limited ways for Brynjolf to pass his time. The guards out in the hall suggest he shouldn’t try roaming the keep or heading out into the city. Besides, Krosa may want him to try to stay out of trouble and he has no desire to make anything more difficult for her than it likely is already… and he doesn’t want to get on her bad side. Not again and not after last night.

After his bath, Brynjolf tried to read. It worked for a while, but he soon grew restless, so he tried going around the room and appraising its valuables. When it grew too tempting to not pocket the ones of actual worth, he switched to drawing instead. Ever since mentioning it to Krosa, he’s been itching to try again. 

After successfully drawing a few pictures of objects around the room, he moved to faces instead. He doesn’t know how long he’s been working at it but the desk soon becomes a mess, and his hands covered in splotches of ink and charcoal.

That’s how Krosa finds him, storming in like a whirlwind. Brynjolf nearly jumps out of his seat. Before she has a chance to see what he’s working on, he gathers the papers and shoves them into a drawer before turning to smile at her.

“I was beginning to wonder if you’d ever return, lass,” he says, watching her dump two familiar packs onto the ground by the fireplace. So, she was able to get them back from Ulfric.  _ That would explain her bad mood.  _ Especially if it took that long to do it.

“Were you here the whole time?” Krosa asks, coming to him.

“I wasn’t sure if I was allowed to wander and figured it was best to stay in one place.”

“What were you working on?”

“Nothing, really. Just trying to pass the time.”

Several moments go by, allowing awkwardness to settle in. Krosa looks as if she’s damn-near about to burst— from what, Brynjolf can only guess. She’s in a similar state that she was in in Rorikstead. Before she gets any crazy ideas, Brynjolf’s eyes drift to the packs by the fire.

“Should we see what they left us with, lass?”

“Oh, yes. Of course— let’s… let’s do that.”

The next hour is filled with doing just that, deciding they would rather do it on the floor than the table. Krosa is mostly quiet as they go through it, though she clearly wasn’t happy to find how interspersed her things were with the rest. The packs are a mess, really. For a long time, Krosa suspected they didn’t actually return everything as promised and Brynjolf was starting to worry that she would take her frustrations out on him. He assured her they were likely to find the amulet she was looking for in the tangled heap of gold and silver chains.

“What's so important about the amulet, lass?” Brynjolf asks when he finally finds it and gets to work untangling it from the rest. It really sticks out amidst them. There is nothing beautiful about it.

“A… friend gave it to me,” Krosa says, scowling as she fingers at what looks like a tear in the corn husk doll that was also tangled in the mess. “And it's saved my life a few times.” 

“Then why don't you wear it?” he asks, handing it to her when he successfully untangles it. She puts the doll carefully into her pack before taking it from him and inspecting it. Brynjolf fights against asking questions about the doll. He had wondered at it when he found it amidst her stuff in Riften, but now the answer can be just a question away. He keeps his mouth shut.

“I don't know, I just— I can't bring myself to most of the time. I don't know why.” She stares at it, biting her lip in thought.

“Well, I don't blame you. It's hideous.” Brynjolf says, and she gives him a look before putting it in the pack as well. “Wait,” he says, remembering his conversation with Delvin. “I had someone look at it and they said it belonged to some sort of magical cult.”

He’s not sure why he says it, but he certainly wasn’t expecting her reaction.

“What?” Krosa asks, face scrunched in confusion. “But—  _ oh _ . Do you think who— I mean, I met one but he didn't— or did he? I can't remember—” She drifts off, retreating into her mind.

“You know, Krosa, you're starting to sound a lot like Etienne,” he says, doing his best to keep a straight face. She punches him in the arm. “Ow!” he exclaims, massaging the offending area. “I was only joking, lass! Jeez.”

“Sorry, I didn't mean to actually—”

“No, you don't have to—That was also supposed to be— oh nevermind.” Brynjolf sighs, “I guess I'm not as funny as I think I am.”

Krosa rolls her eyes. “You are… sometimes.”

“You really know how to give a compliment, lass.” Krosa scowls, but Brynjolf can see through its cracks.

“If it makes you feel any better, I'm terrible at it too.”

Brynjolf laughs, and he can see Krosa’s hint of a smile she tries to hide. His mind goes to the first time he heard her laugh— no, the  _ only  _ time. What will it take to get her to laugh like that again? He doesn’t know why it seems so important, but… it is. Especially after last night. His mind returns to the present and he watches how quickly the hidden smile turns to a frown as she nervously fiddles with the pack’s straps.

“Hey, Brynjolf?”

“Yes, lass?” he says, setting down the tangled jewels. So far he was only able to separate out one bracelet and five necklaces, including Krosa’s amulet. He may have to just cut his losses and chop up the rest.

“What do you—” she starts, her face paling. “I— Um, nevermind. It was stupid.”

“I doubt it is, lass,” Brynjolf says as he places a hand on her knee to keep it from bouncing up and down distractingly. He swears Krosa leans into his touch.  _ Should I comfort her further? _ He would like to, but would that be toeing the line? It seems she doesn’t mind it so much anymore, but he did read her signals wrong once before. Before he can make up his mind, Krosa speaks.

“The war— I, what should I do?” she asks helplessly; she sinks into herself at the question, her arms wrapping around her knees. Brynjolf doesn’t know what happened to the woman who once seemed so confident and sure of herself: telling him the war wasn’t her problem and shrugging it off without a care in the world.

“You don’t have to do anything, lass,” Brynjolf says, finally making up his mind and moving closer to her and draping an arm across her shoulders. It doesn’t take Krosa long to relax into it. “Just because you were chosen to save the world from one threat doesn’t mean all the world’s problems are yours.”

Krosa bites her lip. “But… don’t you think it needs to end?”

Brynjolf sighs, tearing his gaze from her lips to his feet. “It shouldn’t have started in the first place,” he says, ignoring the warmth between them. “I know I said before that the war makes it easier for me and my guild, but that won’t last. So… yes, I think it should end.”

“And if you had to choose?”

“If you’re looking for a direct answer, lass, I don’t have one. The day before yesterday I would say Imperials because they align more with my guild’s interests, but if you’re wanting a quick end then it seems Ulfric is the one to root for currently. Whether one side is actually better than the other, I can’t say.”

Krosa frowns, bringing her knees further into her chest. “I know, but what if you were  _ forced _ to choose?” And then it clicks. Brynjolf straightens, arm tightening around her shoulders.

“Is Ulfric forcing you to choose, lass?” If so, he has half a mind to whisk her out of here. He doesn’t know how he knows, but he can feel it as surely as he can feel her still laying in his arms. Krosa would not do well in a war.

Krosa shakes her head. “No, not— not really. But he offered me something, and I’d be stupid to refuse it, but I also can’t— and I don’t know why I can’t—” She closes her eyes, leans back and takes a breath. ”He said he could take care of the Alik’r for me. He knows where they are, and—”

“Does he want something in return?”

“No… but, yes, I think.” Her eyes open and meet his. “Sorry, I’m probably not making any sense.”

“So, he’s not asking for anything directly but you can tell that it may not be as free as it seems?” Brynjolf offers, mind already racing.

“How—”

“I work with a guild of thieves, lass,” he reminds her with a wink. “And deals like that are a tricky business.”

“You don’t think I should take him up on it then?” she asks, sounding almost hopeful. Brynjolf frowns.

“I’m actually thinking the opposite, lass. You’re the one with the power here. You have nothing to lose by accepting, and in this case, neither does Ulfric. This seems like an attempt to win you over. In fact, if I were you, I’d milk it for what it’s worth. This likely won’t be the only time he will try offering you something— though you would have to be careful not to go too far there’s only so much you can squeeze out of him before the milk runs dry.”

Krosa looks thoroughly disturbed. “That’s something I never wanted to picture,” she says, and Brynjolf laughs.

“Yes, well, that was all I could think of at the moment. But who knows, maybe picturing him as a cow the next time you meet with him will make it more bearable.”

Krosa only smiles, and Brynjolf studies her carefully. 

“It’s not just about Ulfric and the war, is it, lass?”

* * *

“I can’t explain it, but part of me— I guess it’s just hard to imagine— and I don’t even know— I… I told you it was stupid.”

“You’re overthinking it, lass,” he says, and Krosa ignores her faulty heart. “I don’t know what exactly the problem is, but you can either let Ulfric take care of it, ask to go with his men, or ask to have the Alik’r brought to you. No matter what you choose, they won’t be chasing you anymore and you can move on with your life. You have enough problems as it is.”

Krosa closes her eyes, trying not to get too distracted by his arm. She hates to admit how nice it feels, his warmth inviting. Surprisingly comforting, Not to mention how good he smells. Whatever soap he used, it’s… nice. Even his laugh is, well— Krosa colors. Everything about him is comforting, apparently.

How did they get here? Just last week she was determined to hate him forever. But he persisted. Krosa has no idea why he fought so hard to wear her down. And after learning about everything, he reacted far better than she would have expected… and maybe now she’ll have someone on her side through all of this. She hardly even pays what he says any mind, though it does help. Just his presence is enough, and Krosa breathes it in happily.

And there is someone else who has been helping her through everything.

_ “I’m ready to talk.” _

_ “For what it’s worth,” _ the dragon says without missing a beat, _ “I’m sorry for killing your friend. But, in all fairness, both of you were trying to kill me too.” _

Krosa decides to let that slide.  _ “He was my friend. I just didn't know it then." _

_ “If you say so.” _

__ “ _ I’ll forgive you if you don’t bring it up again,  _ and  _ if you don’t keep anything else from me.” _

_ “Then there is something I should say, but it’s probably better to wait until you’re alone.” _

Brynjolf shifts then, and Krosa looks up to him, doing her best to act like what they’re doing is normal and not worrying in the slightest.

“Well, lass,” he says, removing his arm and getting to his feet. “want to get something to eat before I leave? I’m famished.” His hand is outstretched, waiting for her to take it. Krosa does, and he pulls her to feet. They’re close now, closer than they’ve been before. And for a moment, she wants to close the distance between them. Then she realizes what he said.

“You’re leaving?” she asks, stepping away. His hand still grasps hers, and his grip tightens, keeping her in place. Krosa has no choice but to look him in his stupidly green eyes.

“Yes,” Brynjolf says sadly. “I was hoping to head out before the sun goes down. That gives us a few hours, at most.” 

“Why?” Krosa asks, and this time when she pulls away, he lets her. But it’s too late. Krosa can still feel the touch of his hand, warm and irritating. More than anything, Krosa wants to feel it more surely again.  _ No.  _ Krosa closes her eyes. _ This can’t be happening.  _ Not again. 

But it’s too late. It already has.

“I have people waiting for me back home,” he says, oblivious to her rising panic. “I don’t want to worry them needlessly.” 

“You can’t write to them?” Krosa asks, her voice failing to stay level. He studies her for a moment, eyes full of concern. 

“Even if I did, I’m not needed here,” he says slowly, a hand reaching out to brush against her arm. “You don’t want me to go?” 

“No— I don’t have any friends here. I— You’re—” She bites her lip to keep from finishing that.  _ You’re the only one I can trust.  _

Brynjolf gives her a small smile. “I’m sure you can find some, lass, it’s not that hard. Just look for someone with a similar interest… I could also introduce you to some people and we can see how that goes,” he adds, his eyes smirking.

Krosa scowls and turns away.

“Krosa, I was only joking again,” Brynjolf says, closing the distance once again. Krosa needs that distance back. It’s the only thing keeping her from doing something she will regret. Again.

“I know, I know, I just—” Krosa sighs, grabs her cloak, and heads for the door.

“Where are you going?” he calls after her, moving to follow. 

“Don’t follow me. I need time alone.” Because in the end, that’s how it’ll always be regardless. There’s no point in getting comfortable.

* * *

Xariel watches Raysha laugh from across the fire, the light of the orange flames dancing across her face. There’s nothing to see besides the flame, and his heart hardens. She’s gotten comfortable in her position of power, comfortable enough that Xariel hoped she was closer to forgetting all about getting vengeance on Krosa. But after today, he knows nothing has changed. Nothing will ever change.

Raysha only ever responds to violence, praise, or any useful information he has that would be helpful to her search. But, now that she’s earned the other’s respect after wrangling control of the area from various bandit groups, she’s as drunk on power as ever. Completely and blissfully unaware of her own insignificance.

Rumor is, the Dragonborn’s been wandering Skyrim, having already visited the Greybeards at High Hrothgar. And if that’s true, that means Raysha is  _ not  _ the Dragonborn as he originally thought she was going to be. He chose the wrong person to follow. The mistake is a devastating blow,  _ especially  _ since he knows who it’s likely to be.

He’s led Raysha on a path of vengeance against the very person who can fix everything.


	14. In Good Company

Krosa knows she’s being unreasonable. She _knows_ it. Her gut tugs at her, her lungs constrict, her heart stings. This is not a betrayal. She _knows_ that. But it feels like one all the same. It’s not even _him_ that’s the problem. There’s no good reason she should be feeling this way. There was no good reason to get so comfortable so quickly. Because in the end she’s always alone, disaster in her wake.

First was whatever happened to her family. Nazir always told her it was best for her not to know, and with the look in his eyes, Krosa knew that he was only protecting her from whatever tragedy it was. Then it was Nazir himself. Then Alesan. The college, Helgen, Sinding. It all ends the same.

Even this city suffered because of her— and it will continue to do so for as long as this war draws out. The once bustling, colorful, and prosperous city is now a shadow of its former self. There are more soldiers than citizens on its streets; there are buildings that have been turned to rubble.

Why Ulfric thought using trebuchets was a good idea is beyond her. She’d heard he only used it as a warning shot— firing one shot per day to intimidate Balgruuf into submission. Why his army sitting outside the walls wasn’t enough, she’ll never know.

Who knows what will happen next. Maybe it’s a good thing for Brynjolf to keep his distance. Maybe it’s a sign.

“Well hello, Krosa,” someone says from behind. “You look like you need to give someone a good thrashing.”

Krosa spins around, reaching for her sword only to grab air. _Shit, that’s right._ Ulfric still has it. She glares at the three men instead. One is older and the two younger ones look related— and there’s a faint sense of recognition.

“Then I would stay away if I were you,” Krosa warns. Whoever they are, she’s in no mood.

The old man laughs. “I like your spirit. Our training ground is open if you would like to spar. I myself would like to test your arm if you are willing.”

Krosa studies them, their familiarity undeniable.

“Who are you?” she asks when no one comes to mind.

“My name is Kodlak Whitemane, and this is Vilkas and Farkas. We’ve heard a lot about you.” _Vilkas?_ Krosa freezes. He’s the wolf-man from the tavern. Now Krosa really _does_ want to be left alone.

“What did you hear?” she asks, staying alert.

“Well, there’s quite a lot to choose from, but I believe we first heard of you after your fight with the dragon at the western watchtower. A few of us fought by your side.”

“You’re the Companions.” Now that she says it, she remembers the Innkeeper or Vilkas mentioning that in the tavern. She’s done her best _not_ to relive what happened there.

“I thought you would’ve already known that by now,” Vilkas states, eyeing her critically.

“Manners, Vilkas,” Kodlak says, and Vilkas grunts an apology. “So, what do you say? Will you give us the honor of trying your hand with a blade?”

 _What’s so honorable about sparring?_ Krosa wonders, sizing them up. But a friendly fight _does_ sound nice. It’s also a better way to be spending her time. She doesn't know when the last time she trained was, and there’s no point wallowing in her own misery. There are more important things to worry about.

“Alright,” she says, and they all brighten at the word.

“Excellent!” Kodlak says, leading the way. The big man, Farkas, is only a step behind.

Vilkas waits for her to catch up with them, then says, “Fair warning. Njada and Athis will likely want a rematch.”

“I’m not worried," Krosa says with a shrug. She would love to beat the shit out of them again— more thoroughly this time.

The guards’ training ground in Solitude is one of the best she’s been to; the Companion's training ground is nothing special, but it’s not the worst either.

The Companions do not use wooden weapons to practice with, but instead have what looks like older blades with blunted edges. They also have a raised wooden platform to train on. Krosa wonders if that’s all they use. If so, then facing them in the wilderness would be to her advantage. Her training consisted entirely of sand dunes and rocky terrain.

It is decided that Vilkas will go first. Neither of them know much about the other. Vilkas knows she helped take down a dragon, and he was impressed with her ability in the tavern. He won’t be underestimating her. However, Krosa knows he has wolf-blood, and he doesn’t know that she knows. She can use that to her advantage. 

Krosa goes with a sword and shield. If he's as fast as he looks, she'll need the extra protection. Vilkas chooses a two-handed sword, and they make their way up to the platform without a word. Maybe he's not so bad after all.

“Before you start, let’s go over the rules,” Kodlak says, looking between the two. “Anything goes— save for magic— and that includes enchantments,” he says, giving Krosa the chance to speak up. Krosa’s glad she hasn’t had time to enchant any of her new gear. _Though I probably should get back to it._ The extra layer of protection is always nice. When Krosa gives a small shake of the head, he continues, “The goal of the fight is not to injure, though it is likely to happen. An opponent can continue to fight even if disarmed. The match goes until one of you either steps out of bounds or surrenders. I will only intervene if necessary.”

“Come at me with everything you have. Don’t worry, I can take it,” the wolf-man says. Despite her annoyance, Krosa’s glad he said it. It will only add to her deception.

“Alright,” she says, and the bell sounds.

* * *

Krosa leaving like that is definitely no surprise, but it’s still irritating. Brynjolf knows she has a lot going on, but so does he. Granted, his problems don’t even compare to a dragon that wants to conquer the world and enslave them all (again(. Maybe feeling this way makes him an ass, but he can’t help it. And in any case, Brynjolf has no idea what he should be doing while he waits for her to show herself again. He doesn’t even know if she plans to see him before he leaves. Maybe he should just go and not look back; she does that to him all the time.

But he stays.

Krosa’s wellbeing is more important to him than he realized.

Brynjolf sighs, taking a deep breath as he knocks on the door to Etienne’s room. A servant came and told him that Etienne would like to see him, and to be honest, Brynjolf nearly forgot about him again.

“Come in,” a voice from inside says, and Brynjolf enters, casting Krosa from his mind. Etienne deserves some focus. Hopefully the man is faring better than on their travels. He certainly _looks_ better. His hair is no longer matted, his skin has more color to it, and even his eyes seem less clouded. Though, he’s still nothing but skin and bones.

“I brought you some soup, lad,” he says, setting it down on the bedside table. “Thought you might be hungry.”

“Where’s the girl?” Etienne asks, bringing the bowl of soup to his lips greedily.

“She… had something important to do,” Brynjolf says, trying not to sound too bitter. 

Etienne finishes the soup. “You two saved me. The two… I never thanked the two of you.”

“It was her mission. I only ran into her while she was doing it,” Brynjolf says, taking a seat. “Is there something wrong?”

“Time. So much time. You never wondered?” Etienne asks with a cock of his head. Brynjolf hesitates. He never thought what Etienne’s side would be to all of this. Was he waiting to be saved this whole time? Waiting for someone to care enough to look into things and find him? _Should I lie to comfort him?_ But a lie would do no good in the end. The result is the same.

“We assumed you bailed,” Brynjolf says slowly, watching his reaction. “Many were doing so at the time.”

“Failing? The Guild is… f—failing?” He may be able to carry on a conversation much better than on their travels, but his speech pattern isn’t the same as what it used to be. The Etienne he knew was always well-read and eloquent. One of his favorite past times was asking convoluted and complicated riddles, always looking for a way to rub his intelligence into their faces. Save for Gallus, Brynjolf was the only one who could match him for turn of phrase.

“I would say it’s more of a decline,” Brynjolf says with false cheer, “but things have stabilized. And when I return with my current haul, things should be better. I have some plans worth looking into that could—” 

Etienne’s eyes go wide. “Plans? I don’t know anything, I swear. I was only learning. There were no plans. Brynjolf, you have to believe me, I—”

Brynjolf places a hand on his shoulder. “I know, lad. I believe you.” He feels the man relax. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, looking thoroughly embarrassed. “I did it again. I did, didn’t I?”

“Yes— but you’re doing better,” Brynjolf says with a reassuring squeeze, then releases his shoulder and settles back into the chair.

“Good,” Etienne says, rotating the bowl in his hands. “Good. I want to get better.” The bowl makes a full circle, and Etienne looks frantically around the room. Another rotation is complete, and finally Brynjolf takes the bowl from his hands. Etienne looks sheepish.

“You _will_ get better, lad. Just be patient,” Brynjolf says, placing the bowl back onto the end table. He does not show any sort of judgement or emotion. Even if it is disturbing. _What did they do to you?_ Etienne gives him a small smile, hands twisting the fabric of his blanket.

“Thank you. You’re good at this. The others don’t understand.” His hands clench into fists, and Brynjolf struggles to keep looking chipper.

“Yes, well, I’ve had practice— and you don’t sound much different than Delvin when he’s drunk.”

Etienne laughs. “Yes. He was always so much fun. Oh, I miss them.”

He doesn’t know if anyone in the Guild feels the same. It’s been several months since he disappeared. _Since the Thalmor got him,_ he says to himself. The correction may not be necessary, but still he finds the distinction important. To the others it certainly would be. None of them have a desire to allow anyone who ditched to come back if things get better. _When_ they get better _._

“You’re welcome back whenever you want. I’ll explain it to the rest.”

“No. I don’t want to go back,” Etienne says, leaning forward. “They’re nasty there. They hurt me and make me bleed. And the darkness, the pain—”

“Easy, lad. I meant the Guild, not the Embassy,” Brynjolf says slowly, rising to gently push Etienne back down onto the bed. Maybe it’s best for him to catch up on some sleep. Brynjolf has found on their travels that Etienne sleeps best when told to. Etienne allows him to do it, but Brynjolf can still feel how tense he is. “I can even work out a deal with Vex and Delvin so you’ll only do jobs in Riften. You won’t have to travel at all.”

“Getting there is dangerous,” Etienne murmurs, eyes closed. “Dragons… there’s dragons. And fire and black and cold. No. I don’t want to go anywhere. They’re everywhere. Always watching. Esbern said they would be.”

Brynjolf pauses, lifting his hands off the trembling man. “You knew Esbern?” He doesn’t answer. “Etienne—”

“Secrets. So many secrets. I didn’t give them any, I swear!” He rises up again, nearly colliding with Brynjolf. 

“I believe you,” Brynjolf says quickly, and Etienne slumps, falling back into the bed.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be, lad. It’s only been a few days. You—”

“I don’t trust her.”

Brynjolf hesitates. “Who, Krosa?”

Etienne shakes his head. “The one with the questions. I don’t like her questions. All she wants to talk about is _them._ She doesn’t like it when I don’t answer.” 

Brynjolf opens his mouth to reply, but Etienne keeps plowing forward.

“Trust. I don’t think I can. Esbern said to only trust the Dragonborn, and she doesn’t understand. I don’t think I can. _”_

Brynjolf gives it a moment before answering, “You knew Esbern, lad?” He hopes asking the second time around will be more successful. 

“He’s the one who told me.” 

“Told you what?”

“The secrets.”

Well, that didn’t work.

Etienne’s head snaps up. “Footsteps. She’s coming. You need to hide!” he whispers, gesturing under the bed.

“Surely she won’t mind you having a—”

Etienne shakes his head. “I can’t tell you, but you can see. If you stay, you can see. I trust you.” Brynjolf hesitates. “Hurry!”

With a string of curses, Brynjolf launches himself under the bed. As soon as he’s settled, the door bursts open.

“Who are you talking to?” the woman’s gruff voice demands.

“The shadows.”

“Are they talking back?”

There’s a pause. “No.”

“Good. Then you haven’t completely lost it.” Brynjolf hears the chair creak as she settles into it. _This should be interesting._

* * *

The Companions are far from incompetent. Only three matches in, and Krosa feels herself tiring. All have lasted longer than she planned, and with everything going on she hasn’t had much time to train. She calls for a break and leaves the platform to grab some water, studying those she fought.

Vilkas’s speed and cunning exceeded her expectations and nearly cost her the match. He put her on the defensive for a while, and from her time in Skyrim, Krosa learned the Nords hate that. But Krosa isn’t a Nord, nor has she trained like one. The Alik’r train to counter and react, relying on using their opponent’s force and power against them. An Alik’r’s opponent is a boulder, and the Alik’r themself a river. 

Despite his skills, he was overwhelmed with her current. Once his sword was knocked out of his hands, he yielded.

The two drunkards were next, deciding to take her on together. Njada fights like a typical Nord, but Athis is more agile and limber. Krosa knows that if she faced them one on one, they wouldn’t stand a chance. But together, they are more of a challenge. They seem to know each other well, and fight like one person. The match consisted of Krosa dodging and weaving between them, doing what she can to use them against each other. They nearly landed a hit several times, but ultimately Krosa was able to push them outside the ring before they could 

Her eyes go to the big man, Farkas. His stamina matches her own, but his strength and hardiness far exceeds her. Defeating him in a full-on fight was out of the question. But once she changed tactics and focused more on outmaneuvering and using his own massive strength against him, he was outmatched. 

Krosa brings the cup to her lips. Despite fighting better sober than drunk, Njada and Athis can’t even hold a candle to the brothers. Ultimately, it was Vilkas’s reliance on being cunning that cost him the match. If Krosa had to choose which of the brothers she would bet on, it would be Farkas. 

_“He also has wolf-blood.”_

_“I know.”_ It wasn’t hard to guess that they both have it. She wonders if it’s a secret kept between them.

 _“The elder one has it as well, though it’s harder to tell.”_ _That_ she didn’t know. Krosa eyes Kodlak, doing her best to keep her face blank. She never would have guessed. It could also mean more of them have the blood. Sinding always made it seem like a curse, but to them it may be a gift of some kind. Maybe they’re not as unreligious as they seem. Sinding did mention a group who worshipped the blood.

If the dragon didn’t say anything, Krosa would not have been able to even guess what they were— and Krosa knows there’s more like them roaming Tamriel. Stories told of people’s friends who turn out to be werewolves are only beaten by those who turn out to be vampires. 

Krosa can see a pattern between the wolves. They’re quicker than they should be, stronger, hardier, and their senses are uncanny. If she wasn’t already prepared for it, she likely would have lost the first match. If she had run into anyone like them before, it could have proven fatal. Sinding surprised her a few times, despite being no good in a fight.

 _“Am I able to do that?”_ Krosa asks, taking another drink of the water. Being able to sense them would keep her from being caught unaware. Her dragon doesn’t answer. Krosa tries not to be annoyed.

 _“Eventually,”_ he finally says. Krosa waits for more, but he doesn’t give her any. She puts her cup down and heads back to the training platform. 

“I have time for one more match, if you want,” Krosa says, looking Kodlak in the eye. He seems to be the leader, and despite his age, his body is as well-toned as the others. Njada and Athis express an interest in trying again, but Krosa wants to see what he can do.

“No, thank you,” he says with a smile, “I’m sure you’re feeling worn out and I want to fight you at your best.”

“I’m always at my best,” Krosa says, knowing she may eat those words. She doesn’t doubt that he’d be difficult, but she can already feel the promise of victory pumping through her veins. Besides, her body longs for it and her mind is calm for once. She feels better than ever.

 _“Dragons love combat, so it’s no surprise.”_ Before Krosa can reply, Kodlak sighs. 

“Very well,” he says, and the glint in his eyes makes Krosa wonder if he was looking for an answer like that.

Krosa retrieves her sword and thoroughly dented shield. Making a split-second decision, she replaces the shield with another sword. The last time she fought with dual blades was in the Arena. These swords are not made for it like scimitars are, but she can make do. A shield only slows her down and draws out a fight, and her arms are tired enough as is.

Kodlak chooses a sword and full-body shield. Krosa smirks. _He waited for me to choose on purpose_. When they get onto the platform, he doesn’t wait for the bell to sound. Krosa’s muscles move for her, her brain a few steps behind. She’s able to dodge the attack, but misses the opening he gave her when he lunged. For someone so concerned with honor, he certainly doesn’t baulk at playing dirty. She stores that thought for later and counters his attack, managing to remain on the offensive.

Soon it becomes apparent that it’s impossible for Krosa to outmaneuver him when he has the shield. She’s tried from all angles, and still he persists in beating her off. Her attempts to push him out of the bounds like she did to Farkas also proves futile. 

Krosa’s glad that she decided to switch things up and replace her shield. In just a few matches, he has clearly been able to study how she moves. Despite the change in weapons, Krosa has yet to land a successful hit. Kodlak has yet to hit her, but so far he is winning the match. Krosa can feel exhaustion worming its way in, chipping away at her speed and strength. When he attacks next, she changes her rhythm.

The Alik’r are fond of dancing, and their fighting style reflects that. A snake is flexible and unpredictable, quick and decisive. That is the animal she chooses to emulate. Spinning is a risk, but it can be effective if done right, same with the wide stances, and arcing swings of the blade. 

Speed. Momentum. Grace. With the change, Krosa also gains more of an advantage. He can no longer predict her movements, and despite Kodlak’s shield providing excellent cover, there are some drawbacks. He moves slower, his footsteps are heavier, and Krosa finds her opening.

Dropping a sword and lunging under the swing of his blade, Krosa finally gets past his shield. She wrenches the sword out of his hand and stops behind him. He recovers, moving to counter-strike, but his foot lands on Krosa’s discarded blade and he stumbles. 

Krosa moves in for the kill.

Kodlak moves just in time, shield coming between her and him at just the right angle. Krosa’s sword flies out of her hand, the impact still vibrating through her arm. Krosa curses. Either he had one last burst of speed in him or he was exaggerating his fatigue. Either way, Krosa is now weaponless. He slams his shield into her, and she’s thrown onto her back. If this was a real battle, that wouldn’t be a problem. 

Kodlak doesn’t press his advantage, instead motioning her to get to her feet. He doesn’t even go for any of the blades. It seems he’s intent on learning how she would get past his shield. _This isn’t a real match for him_ , Krosa realizes, _this is a test of some kind_. Or maybe it’s just a Nord’s sense of damn pride. Knowing he won’t attack while she’s on the ground, she takes her time.

Magic isn’t allowed, but the Voice is not magic. The Greybeards drilled that fact into her, and Nords seem to respect it. She can already feel the power bubbling up inside of her. The rush, the adrenaline. The absolute— victory.The world seems to slow as it builds and builds. _It would only be right._ The words burn in her throat. 

_“Use it.”_

_“He is beneath you.”_

_“Show him the power you truly possess.”_

Well, that answers that. The words die, turning to ashes on her tongue, leaving her throat dry. She ignores anything that bubbles below the surface.

_“Why do they want me to win?”_

_“You losing to anyone they consider beneath you would be an insult to them. If someone can beat you, it means that someone could defeat them as well. And if you give in to their demands, they’re one step closer to taking control of you.”_

Krosa knows what she needs to do.

“I yield,” she says, nearly choking on the words. The weight of disappointment is crushing. Krosa hasn’t lost a fight in years. She comforts herself with the thought that this wasn’t a real fight, but even so it damages what little pride she has. She closes her eyes and takes a deep breath before turning to get off the platform. She refuses to look at the others.

“I do not accept.” Kodlak says, and Krosa comes to a stop. “Come at me one more time. Don’t hold back.”

Krosa will most certainly hold back, but there is one other move she could do.

“No,” Krosa says before she changes her mind. “The only move I would try will injure you.” Krosa’s done it before in the Arena, but she destroyed the man’s arm in the process. It was a risky and desperate move. His arm never healed properly, and he could never fight in the Arena again. The outcome would likely be the same, though that’s only if it works.

“I am old, not frail,” Kodlak says with a grin.

“I can see that. It may injure me too if I fail or don’t do it right.”

“Very well,” He says, lowering his guard, “but I must admit I am curious.”

“You’ve already learned a lot about how I fight. I don’t want you to know all of my secrets.” The fact does bother her, but the likelihood of ever seriously fighting them is low to nothing. Besides, this was _fun._ She’s never fought for fun before.

“Yes, you did give us a good show. Tell me, is there anything you would do differently next time?”

“It sounds like you have something in mind,” Krosa says, crossing her arms.

Kodlak smirks. “You are overwhelmingly talented, yes, but even _you_ have a limit.” He drops his shield and massages his arm. “You were fighting against that limit the whole match. If I were a real opponent, the smarter option would have been to retreat.”

Krosa raises an eyebrow. “If you were a real opponent, I wouldn’t have followed your rules.”

Their spectators laugh at that, talking amongst each other. Krosa drowns them out again. The match may be over, but she has no interest in what they may say. It will be the same as always.

“That’s true enough, I suppose,” the old man says, “and I am impressed by your judgment and restraint, but I do encourage you to remember—”

“Lighten up, Kodlak, you don’t need to turn everything into a lesson,” a red-headed woman who was not there before says. Krosa recognizes her from after the dragon battle, but doesn’t remember her name.

“Life is a lesson, Aela, and you should never stop learning from it.”

Aela smirks, giving a small bow. “If you say so, Harbinger.”

Kodlak only raises an eyebrow before turning back to Krosa. The group has already started to break up. Krosa moves to pick up her fallen swords, but Kodlak stops her.

“No. Njada and Athis will clean that up. They are still being punished with menial tasks,” he says, and the two drunkards immediately move to do as he says. Athis even offers her a smile when they pass. Kodlak gestures to her. “Come, follow me. There is something I would like to discuss with you.”

By the time they take a seat at the table, Krosa has a fair idea of what he would want to talk to her about.

“You’re going to offer me a place with you,” she says, and Kodlak smiles knowingly as the brothers come to join them.

“Strong and smart. You’re a woman after my own heart,” Aela says from behind. The others shoot her a look. “What?”

“Ignore her. She’s drunk,” Vilkas says, taking a seat. “Probably got into a fight with Skjor again.”

Kodlak ignores them, his eyes boring into hers. “You’re right. As I said before, we’ve heard a lot about you. Aela suggested it after the dragon attack, but we never saw you. Then Vilkas came to me after the tavern incident,” he says with a knowing smile. “That was recommendation enough. He never likes new recruits, no matter how promising.”

“Hey—” Vilkas starts, but his brother interrupts with a hand to his shoulder.

“It’s true, brother.”

“Yeah,” Athis says from across the yard, “you’re kind of an ass.”

Kodlak sighs. “I suppose it’s best to get to the point and stop wasting your time. Would you like to call yourself a Companion and join our ranks?”

Krosa’s heart sinks. It should be flattering that so many people want her to join them, but that can’t be farther from the truth. The idea of joining anyone has always been one Krosa has disliked. There’s something different this time, but Krosa shakes off the thought. 

“No. I— I can’t.”

“Is there a reason, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“I have… other responsibilities at the moment. Even if I wanted to—” And Krosa realizes that she _does_ want to. That’s what is different. Why can’t she make up her mind? Tears sting her eyes, and for once she succeeds in keeping them there. Kodlak is silent for a time, studying her. Krosa wonders if now would be a good time to leave, but he speaks before she can.

“I recognize your fighting style, and I detect traces of an accent. You come from Hammerfell, is that right?”

Krosa narrows her eyes. “So?”

“I was in Hammerfell for a time before my predecessor, Askar, found me and brought me here. I was working for some weak-necked lord out there. I believe I don’t have to tell you how different the philosophies of Nords and Redguards are. I didn’t know true honor, and I had no family to call my own… When Askar brought me to Skyrim, I realised he had brought me home,” he says with a far-off look in his eyes. “Like most of our band, I found a family here. And no matter how far we go on our journeys or how long we are gone, that will never change.”

When he finishes, he gives Krosa a look, expecting something.

Krosa blinks. “What does that have to do with—”

“He’s saying that it doesn’t matter where you come from or where you go. This could be your home, and maybe it was always meant to be that way,” Farkas says, looking off at the setting sun.

“Well said, Farkas,” Kodlak says, a tinge of surprise in his voice, and shock in his eyes. 

Vilkas leans in, drawing her eyes to him. “To make it even simpler for you, we are offering to make you an honorary Companion. Whenever you’re in Whiterun, you will be welcome to eat and train with us. There will also be a bed and jobs available for you, if you so please. When you’re fully ready to commit, you will take the vows in a ceremony and have to follow certain rules. Then you can rise up within our ranks and earn more for each job.”

“What are the rules?”

“It sums up to only doing things that could bring honor to us and yourself. I doubt we have to explain it all to you,” Vilkas says, and Krosa tries to keep her face blank. She _would_ like more of an explanation, but she’s not going to push it. Not at the moment, at least.

“What do _you_ get from this?” she asks, looking between the three of them. So far, there’s no red flags, but Krosa doesn’t want to take too many chances.

“The honor of your company, and your shield at our side,” Kodlak states, and they all give her a small smile— save for Farkas, but his mind seems to be on something else entirely.

_“What do you think? Should I do it?”_

_“You don’t have to turn to me to make a decision,” her dragon says, disapproval tainting his voice. ”But it’s always good to have allies. They may stink like a mongrel, but they seem to be honest.”_

Brynjolf _did_ encourage her to try and make friends. His advice for the Ulfric problem could also ring true in this case. However, this is different from Ulfric’s offer. There really is nothing more to this. Krosa does her best not to doubt it.

“I accept, but I— I may never do the… vow thing.”

Farkas smirks. “That’s what Skjor said,” he says, then promptly gets elbowed by his brother.

“I am glad to hear it,” Kodlak says, giving the two of them a look. “Now that that’s decided, would you like to feast with us? I’m sure we’ve beaten a hunger into you, and we always have plenty to go around.”

Krosa shakes her head and gets to her feet. “Thank you, but there’s somewhere I need to be.” If Brynjolf hasn’t left yet, then he will be soon. Krosa doesn’t want to risk missing him. She doubts he’ll wait, not after all she’s put him through these last few days.

“At the very least let us introduce you to the others,” Kodlak says, “Then you can take food and go. It shouldn’t take long… whenever food is involved everyone is punctual.”

Krosa considers it. She _is_ starving, and she can smell whatever’s cooking from here. Facing Brynjolf on an empty stomach is also not the greatest idea. Her face flames at the reminder, and prays to whatever god that is listening that _that_ doesn’t happen ever again.

“Alright,” she says, and they head inside.

* * *

 _“What,”_ the voice says, taking a breath _“is the music,”_ another breath, _“of life?”_

“Silence, my brother,” Nazir responds with a roll of his eyes. Babette’s in charge of guarding the door today, it seems. She always uses the same password, and anyone else would have seen it was him and opened right up. They also don’t try to disguise their voice. The door slowly opens, and the screaming skull is replaced with Babette’s dark grin.

“You’re back early,” she says brightly. As brightly as a murderous vampire child can, at least.

“It’s nice to see you too, Babette,” Nazir says, pushing past her. She follows him, only a step behind.

“Astrid said I could keep him, but only for a little while.”

“Good. He may be of use to me still.” He doesn’t need to turn around to see the triumph sparking in her eyes.

“See, Nazir? That’s why you should listen to me more often! What would you have done if I didn’t insist on keeping him alive?” Babette says as they reach the end of the hall, she stops there, having gotten in trouble one too many times for abandoning her post.

“Alive is a loose term,” he calls back to her, not stopping. “I’m not sure it entirely applies to the state he’s in.”

“You know what I mean!” she shouts, before stomping back to the door in a huff.

“Oh, good. You’re back!” a slithering voice says, and Nazir turns to see the glint of dark green scales emerging from the shadows. “I’ve been waiting for a rematch.” 

“Later, Veezara. I have more important things to do.”

“Rude,” the lizard says, before slipping back into the shadows. Nazir sighs. The Brotherhood is always less active in winter. Being in such close proximity to each other for extended periods of time is usually frowned upon. They have a tendency to want to kill each other, and Nazir’s glad that hasn’t happened yet. That he’s heard of.

But that may change if they keep getting in his way. He has to fend off Gabriella and Festus as well, cutting them off before they even start. _What is with everyone today?_ he wonders, scowling. Why can’t anyone mind their own damned business?

Nazir passes Arnbjorn on his way to Astrid’s office, and the man only gives him a grunt in acknowledgement. Arnbjorn always was his favorite, even if he is nothing but Astrid’s glorified lap-dog.

“Back already, Nazir?” Astrid says when he finally reaches her office. “Did you get what you needed?”

“Almost,” Nazir says, collapsing into a chair. “I have to question Babette’s new pet again.” It’ll be more of a chore than fun this time around, but it needs to happen nonetheless.

“I’ll save you the trouble,” she says, kicking her feet up and onto the desk. “They’re here in Falkreath— Helgen, to be more precise.”

“What? How—Why—”

“You usually don’t care about anything, Nazir. Much less children. We were worried— and some were bored,” she adds with a smirk.

“How many of you were involved in this?” Nazir asks, not believing what he’s hearing. Maybe that’s why they were all eager to speak with him. And he shot them all down without a second thought.

“All of us.” Astrid says, and Nazir doesn’t know what the feeling rising in his chest is, but it better not be anything soft or fluttery. Astrid smirks again, then continues. “Not to mention the word of them has been growing, taking our fame with it. So you see, it’s the Brotherhood’s problem as well as yours.”

“I—” Nazir tries, not knowing what to say. “Tha—”

Astrid laughs, waving him off as she gets to her feet. “Don’t bother with thanks, Nazir. It doesn’t suit you. Now, do you want to go in alone, or take some of us with you?”

“I was planning on infiltrating their ranks,” Nazir says. He’s been planning how he would do it the whole way back.

Astrid scoffs. “Do you have that much time to waste?” she asks, and Nazir admits that she has a point. Besides, the rest of them have blades itching for blood. It will be better for them to be covered in the blood of enemies than each other’s.

“I need the leader alive.”

“Done.”

  
  
  
  



	15. No Good at Goodbyes

Sorry for the wait! Things have been hectic, and despite knowing exactly how I wanted things to go, it was hard to actually write it! Writer's block is the worst. I hope you enjoy!

* * *

Jorrvaskr is larger than it looks, and consists mostly of a large dining hall and firepit. Weapons, armor pieces, and pelts line the wall. A few trophies here or there on display— one in particular that catches her eye. A dragon skull with two swords sticking out of it. No matter where she looks, she can always see it there.

The introductions go smoothly, and Krosa welcomes the distraction. There is only one Companion she hasn’t already met: a young girl named Ria who doesn’t seem like a fighter at all. Skjor was the man with Aela when they visited her after Mirmulniir’s attack on the watchtower and Krosa can’t tell if he has a problem with her or if that’s his natural face.

They also introduce her to Tilma— a woman who looks like she’s on death’s door. Krosa tries not to feel too uncomfortable, and when all is said and done, Tilma gives her a large sack of food with a wink. Farewells are said, and Krosa sets her sight on the large front door. She has no idea what she’ll say to Brynjolf yet.

“You know, there  _ are  _ other ways of blowing off steam with a partner, and you seem to be in sore need of it,” Aela says into her ear, putting an arm around Krosa’s shoulder and bringing her to a stop. “And don’t try to deny it. I can practically smell it coming off of you in waves.”

“Umm… No,” Krosa says, hoping she isn’t talking about what Krosa thinks she is.

The woman cackles. “I didn’t mean me!” she says, gesturing to herself with her free hand. “Unfortunately for you, I’m taken. But maybe you’d like to give Vilkas over there a shot,” she says, pointing at the man hopefully not sitting within hearing distance. “I know for a fact he’d be interested.”

Krosa shrugs off her arm and resumes her path to the door.

“Oh no, don’t leave!” the woman calls out, moving to block Krosa’s exit. “I’m only joking, though not about your  _ dire  _ need for sexual stimulation. I can show you a few tips to get the job done yourself if you want. All you’ll need are your own two hands and a little ima—”

“Aela, that’s enough. Stop torturing her,” Vilkas says, coming in between them. Krosa wishes they’d both get out of her way.

“I’m trying to  _ help _ ,” the woman says with a wicked grin on her face.

“You’re too drunk to be of help to anyone,” he says as he none-too gently shoves her in the direction of the stairs. “Go find Skjor. I’m sure he’d be far more receptive to your brand of torture.”

“You’re welcome to join if you change your mind.” Aela says to Krosa with a wink before sauntering away.

Vilkas sighs, hand sliding down his face before turning back to Krosa.

“I am deeply sorry for that, she’s not always like this.” Krosa only half-smiles in response, wondering if she should just bolt before anything else thoroughly embarrassing happens. It would do them both a favor. She doesn’t know who is more uncomfortable. “It seems we will always be unable to leave a good impression,” he says before she can make up her mind, “is there any way we can make it up to you?”

_ “She isn’t wrong though,” _ the dragon says, a trace of humor in his voice,  _ “and this… beast  _ would  _ be interested.” _

Krosa blanches. “I— Uhh, no,” she says to the man with a shake of her head. “I’m just… leave. I mean— ugh”  _ And never come back.  _ She thinks to herself as she shoves past him and storms out the door. To the dragon, she says,  _ “What’s wrong with you?” _

_ “Helping you is a thankless task,”  _ he says as she reaches the bottom of the stairs. Krosa huffs, refusing to look back to see if any of them are trying to follow or are watching her hasty departure. She hears a laugh come from inside the building, and Krosa groans. When she’s out of sight of the building, she slows down and slumps against a post. Why does her life have to be so damned difficult?

_ “Because you’re determined to make it that way, it seems.” _

Krosa ignores him as she does her best to tamp down her desire to break something.

_ “You said you had something to tell me when I’m alone,”  _ Krosa says, hoping for something to distract her.

_ “And not in public. I don’t know how you’ll react.”  _

_ That doesn’t sound good _ . Krosa considers pushing the matter, but decides against it. Catching Brynjolf before he leaves takes precedence. It’s a few moments before she can peel herself away from the post, the only thing urging her to move on is the darkening sky. Deciding not to take any chances, Krosa sets a relentless pace for the stables just outside the city, hoping Brynjolf doesn’t try to use one of his own exits.

_ “You know, he’d be interested too, and is probably a better option for you.” _

Krosa’s heart skips a beat as an image of Brynjolf’s shirtless chest infests her mind. His smirk. His warmth. His— she feels her whole body heat up, and scowls.

_ “Knock it off… And why are you so interested in my sex life?” _

_ “Us dragons feel what you feel, and it’s akin to torture most of the time.” _

_ “Well get used to it,” _ Krosa snaps, not even believing they are having this conversation in the first place. She did  _ not  _ need to know  _ anything  _ about what she learned in the past few minutes. How on Nirn is she ever supposed to look any of them in the face again?

_ “Ignoring what you can’t control is not a—” _

_ “I will kill you.” _

_ “You already have.” _

She crashes into someone.

“Oh, sex! I mean… shit! I— I didn’t see you there.” It’s Brynjolf. She crashed into Brynjolf. Maybe Krosa will kill herself instead.

“Lass, are you… drunk?” Brynjolf asks, his hands steadying her.

“... No, or—" Maybe she should say yes. Being drunk would be a good excuse, but she’s not sure she can keep up the act. “I— I don’t want to talk about it,” she says, trying to think of the best way to off herself. Maybe jumping off a cliff. Or stabbing herself repeatedly. 

“Are you sure?” he asks, letting her go. “You seem—” 

Krosa sighs, running a hand down her face and hoping it’s not as red as she thinks it is. “I’m sure. I just— It was unpleasant, the conversation… that I had.” She refuses to look at him, focusing on the ground instead. Somehow, she didn’t even notice that she made it all the way to the stables.

“You had a conversation,” he says slowly, his voice far too controlled, “about—” 

“Please let me pretend that none of this happened,” she pleads. Somehow, hearing him say it will make it all so much worse. Why did Akatosh have to pick  _ her  _ to save the world of all people? Her life was bad enough as it was. Now she has to deal with  _ that  _ on top of all  _ this _ ?

“If that’s what you want,” he says, and Krosa refuses to look in his eyes. She doesn’t want to see what she knows will be dancing there.

“Thanks,” Krosa mumbles, already feeling herself relaxing slightly. She still refuses to look at him and hopes her face isn't giving anything away.

“You know, I wasn’t sure you’d come,” Brynjolf says after a long pause, moving towards the spotted horse he nicked from Rorikstead.

Krosa cringes. “I’m sorry, I— You— I know I shouldn’t have left like that—It’s just that once you’re gone, I won’t have—” Krosa huffs, wishing that for once in her life she can find the right words and finish  _ the damn sentence. _

Brynjolf studies her for a moment. “Come here, lass,” he says, motioning her with his hand. One of the hands she can’t stop thinking about. On her body. In… places.

“I— What— Why?” Krosa asks, not sure if Brynjolf or the horse is more intimidating. 

“You’ve fought dragons, lass, and you’re still scared of horses?”

Krosa scowls. “I’m not scared. I just do not  _ like  _ them.”  _ What doesn’t he get about that? _

Brynjolf smirks. “Give me your hand.”

* * *

Krosa looks at his offered hand like a Jarl looks at piss, and Brynjolf does his best not to laugh. It’s not everyday he gets to see Krosa as flustered as this. And he would kill to know what kind of conversation she had to make her act in such a way. But he resists.

“Umm, I—” she starts, hand only slightly raised in the attempt. Brynjolf takes it and drags her towards the horse. She stiffens, breathing in sharply. “What are you doing? Bryn—” He places her hand on the horse’s forehead. She does nothing more to fight him, but she’s still stiff as a board.

“See, lass? It’s not that bad,” he says as she starts to slowly pet it unprompted. He removes his hand, reaching for the apple in his sack. “Now give her this,” he says, reaching for her free hand and placing the apple in it.

“No.” She tries to pull her hand out of his, the other one flying off the horse as she tries to back away, but he doesn’t let her. “No, no Bryn— what if it eats my hand?”

Brynjolf can’t help the smile that creeps onto his face. “She won’t eat your hand. Horses don’t eat meat.”

“I know that!” Krosa huffs, still straining against his hold. “I meant it could bite me by accident.”

“If she did, it would just hurt for a bit— maybe bruise if you’re unlucky. You’re tough, lass, you’ll be fine,” he says, giving her a reassuring squeeze. Krosa relaxes a smidge, a scowl gracing her features. 

“Alright, fine, just… don’t rush me,” Brynjolf relents, giving her some space. He watches her as she eyes the horse warily, the apple wrapped tightly in her fist. It reminds him of Aiden learning how to throw knives. He was terrified at first, but ultimately didn’t want to stop by the end, no matter how dangerous it got. The thought brings a smile to his face.  _ When I get back, I’ll try that again.  _ He turns his attention back to Krosa.

It’s flattering that she wants him to stay, and her hesitance now with this is only making it harder to leave. She’s overwhelmingly competent in so many areas that it can be hard to remember what she lacks. And it’s hard to forget the other… problem that would make staying even more difficult than leaving.

“Hold your hand out like this to avoid getting bit,” he says when she looks ready, adjusting her fingers to loosen her death grip on the apple. 

Tearing her hand out of his grasp, she slowly brings it to the horse's mouth. The horse snatches it from her hand, and she all but jumps, knocking into his chest. Brynjolf grins. “Looks like you survived, all fingers intact.”

She tentatively reaches out to pet the horse again, quickly redrawing with what almost sounded like a squeak when it nudges into her. Brynjolf’s hands tighten into fists. It would be too easy to reach out and caress her face, pull her in for an embrace, or leave her breathless with a kiss.  _ Where is this even coming from?  _ Brynjolf wonders, trying to control his breathing. All the other times he wanted to… fornicate with a woman he felt nothing like this.

It makes no sense, especially with the fact that she’d likely maim him if she knew where his thoughts were leading.  _ It’s just been a while,  _ he reasons. All he needs to do is find a woman…  _ or a few _ to take his mind off of Krosa and he’ll be as good as gold the next time they meet. Maybe Ysolt will change her tune, though with the news he has to bring her, he doubts she’d be in the mood.

“I used to love horses,” Krosa blurts out, crossing her arms as she stares at the beast in trepidation. “I think.” Brynjolf tries to give her his full attention once again, fighting the urge to close the scant distance between them.

“What changed?” 

She frowns. “I’m not sure… it’s hard to remember.” 

“Do you have lots of blanks in your memory, lass?” Brynjolf asks softly, hoping he’s not going too far.

The way her face changes tugs at something in his chest. There’s still so much he doesn’t know. About her past, about her life now, and there’s still so much she has to go through alone. He can almost see the weight on her shoulders, see the struggle in her every breath. He wishes there was something he could do to help ease her burden. Something that didn’t include risking his whole relationship with her.

Krosa snorts. “I wish I had more, well, sometimes… That’s why I started keeping a journal, you know.” She adds softly, “I would write down the important things in case I lost my memory again. Then it just became a habit.”

Brynjolf can see her walls closing in. She’s reached her limit.

The faraway sound of wind through the pine trees and drifts of snow echo throughout their world. The darkness is closing in, the cold returning. But there’s still some light from the stables lanterns and the warmth shared between them. Brynjolf holds onto that feeling.

He sighs, a hand running through his hair. “I used to draw as a kid. Wanted to be an artist like my mother.”  _ What are you doing?  _

There’s a hint of a smile, something sparking in her eyes. “Really?” 

“My father didn’t approve. He—” Brynjolf massages his hand, trying to think of the least…  _ emotional  _ way to say it. “He wanted me to be a soldier like him.”

A shout, a torn page. Brynjolf is dragged out of the house, a sword placed in his hands.  _ It’s time for you to learn how to be a man, none of that pen and paper shit.  _ He’s given the beating of his life.  _ It’s for your own good.  _ Tears streaming down his face, his hand broken, body bruised and trembling _.  _ He drops the sword, falls to his knees. 

_ You’re no son of mine. _

Brynjolf tears himself away from the onslaught of memories, voice thick and throaty. “After he left and my mother died, Gallus encouraged me to start doing it again, but it didn’t last long.” 

“Why did you stop?”

He refuses to cry. “I couldn’t get my mother’s face right. It was... disheartening to say the least,” he says quickly. “Now I only draw when it’s necessary.” _ Or bored.  _ He thinks, remembering the pile of papers still stuffed in Krosa's drawer.

Should he tell her about them?  _ No.  _ He’s not sure he wants her to look at them. To see something so personal to him, and besides there’s one he’d rather her not see more than the rest. He doesn’t know what she’d think. It gets quiet again, and Brynjolf doesn’t know if it’s a comfortable quiet or an awkward one. Their time is up, but—

“I have a favor to ask of you, lass.” 

“What kind of favor?” she asks, giving him a look that suggests she expects trouble.

“It’s nothing grand or devious, I promise you,” he says playfully, before forcing himself to be serious again. “Etienne— look out for him, alright? I know he makes you uncomfortable, but I know you won’t mistreat him like Delphine.”

“How do you know she—”

“I… may have overheard a conversation between them— but I promise I wasn’t trying to snoop, lass. It all just happened so quickly, but— there’s something else too. I had left all of this in a note, which you can burn without reading now,” he says quickly, “but I’d rather tell you in person.”

* * *

_ He’s rambling _ , Krosa thinks. Brynjolf never rambles. She tries not to smile as she prompts him to go on. 

“Delphine… has something. A book about Dragonborns.” That gives her pause.

_“What?_ ” Krosa had asked her if she found anything important while she was gone. Delphine insisted there was nothing new. _Did she have it the whole time?_ No. Krosa would have noticed, right? Why would she keep this from her? Maybe there’s nothing in it they don’t already know—

“That’s not all, lass,” Brynjolf says, coming closer. “The questions she was asking Etienne— I— it seems… she didn’t outright say it, but I think she’s planning something against you.” 

Krosa shakes her head. “No. That makes no sense. I’m the Dragonborn, she—.”

“—doesn’t want you to be.”

“I know that too,” Krosa says, crossing her arms. “She can’t do anything about it.”

“Krosa, lass,” Brynjolf says as he takes a step closer, forcing her to really heed him. To see him and his worry. “She thinks she can.”

Krosa scoffs, ignoring the unsettling pinpricks of— of whatever she’s feeling. He’s told her before that he cares, so why does it seem like such a surprise that he’s acting on it? “I would like to see her try,” Krosa mutters.

“She thinks being Dragonborn makes you dangerous.”

“I am dangerous,” she replies with a smirk. There's a flicker in his eyes. It’s not humor, like she had hoped, but worry. He’s genuinely worried. He really, truly is— and he’s at his wit’s end with her, if his clenched fists are anything to go by. Krosa sighs, “I appreciate the concern, Brynjolf, but—”

“Come with me.” The words pull at something Krosa would rather they not. 

“No.”

“You can’t stay here, lass,” he exclaims, hands grasping her arms tightly. If he was anyone else, she would smack them off. “You—”

“I can,” she says, grasping his forearms in assurance. “And I’m going to.” 

His face falls, and he lets her go.

“I can’t run at the first sign of trouble, Brynjolf,” Krosa says, almost pleading. Wanting him to understand that if she could, she would. More than anything. But running away has always been her specialty. “I have a job to do, and I can’t do that if I go with you.”

“And what will you be doing here?” he demands, pacing aggressively. “Sitting around and waiting for an answer or— or for Alduin to fall into your lap? All while you let yourself get surrounded by those who only want to use you, may be plotting against you, and who don’t have a care in the world for you besides the fact you’re Dragonborn? With Ulfric and Delphine, this is clearly  _ not _ the best place for you.”

“And you think  _ Riften  _ is?” Krosa regrets it as soon as she says it. His face hardens once the shock fades.

“That won’t happen again.” 

“It shouldn’t have happened in the first place.” Krosa says, almost missing the brief flash of hurt that crosses his face. Krosa sighs. She needs to fix this. She needs to stop being so damned  _ difficult _ . Brynjolf deserves that much at the very least.

“I guess I can’t fault you for that,” he says, voice clipped.

“Bryn—”

“No. I get it. You—”

“I don’t blame  _ you  _ for it. Not anymore… But I can’t ignore it. It’s actually good that you’re leaving. I’ll take Ulfric’s deal, but even so— nowhere is safe for me, and if I go with you, nowhere will be safe for you either.”

Something changes in him then, and Krosa wishes she could say she doesn’t know what it is. But he’s not alone in… what it is. She can feel something changing in her too— a want, a need. A hunger. She stomps it down as quickly as it rises, but the memory of it remains. Taunting. Longing. Wanting. 

_ “You really do love to torture yourself, don’t you?” _

_ “Shut up. Get out of my head,”  _ Krosa says, before throwing up her mental blocks again. She really does need to get better at that.

“You don’t have to worry about me, lass,” he says, and the  _ tenderness  _ in his voice almost makes her reconsider. It would be nice to have that around her more often. To have  _ him _ around her more often. But she can’t. Not when her life is such a mess already and she melts in his hands.

“That’s the point, Brynjolf. I don’t  _ want  _ to worry about you. Not when I have to worry about everything else too.” And there it is. Again— stronger than before but just as unwelcome. Nagging. Itching. Hoping.

Falling.

“I hope you know what you’re doing.” 

Krosa offers him a weak smile. “I hope so too.” She sighs, shaking off whatever is between them. “You should go, but, well— I wanted to say… thank you. For everything. I— I’m glad you were here, and… I’m sorry it has to end like this.”

* * *

_ It doesn’t have to,  _ his mind screams. He’s grasping, reaching for anything. Trying to think of something to say, but Krosa already starts to leave.

“Let me know if you need anything… and keep me updated if you can,” he says quickly, trying not to let desperation taint his voice, seeming to awake from a trance. Krosa nods, taking a deep breath before turning and walking away.

Brynjolf considers saying something, nearly going after her. But he doesn’t trust himself. If he goes after her, he may do something he’ll regret. It’s all he can do not to pull her right back to him and ravish her till dawn breaks. Maybe it’s better for it to be like this. He’s not willing to risk anything. Not yet. Besides, it’s a very Krosa way to leave things. 

But then she stops.

And turns.

“I’m sorry I— I’m not the best at saying goodbye, but I—” He dares not take a step, but her floundering undoes him.

“See you sometime, lass?” he offers, coming up to her and sticking out his hand.  _ Keep it professional,  _ he tells himself.  _ Don’t do what you did last time _ . Remembering her swift and brutal knee to his groin definitely helps.

Krosa stares at his hand for a moment before slowly meeting it with her own. She isn’t quick to let go. This was a bad idea. A very,  _ very  _ bad idea. He can’t stop  _ wanting _ : that she’d pull him in for a kiss, ask him to wait till morning to leave. But what would happen after? They wake up the next day and— what changes? Would  _ anything  _ change? Good or bad. Or would they just… move on like it was nothing. Like he’s used to doing? Would he stay?

One out of three. Something, nothing, or everything _.  _ Friend, casual lay, or… more. Where do the others end and ‘more’ begins? Who even knows what ‘more’ is? But he can't shake the image of after— what it could be. Where in the name of Dibella's bosom is this coming from? The attraction's always been there, but what is  _ this _ ? Uncomfortable, that’s for sure. Unknowable. Unforeseen. Un— un— he’s sure there’s more words that could fit. Impossible. There’s one. Not quite what he was looking for, but it works.

“Is something wrong?” she asks, concern coloring her golden eyes.

“Nothing.”  _ Everything. _

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”  _ No. _

“Brynjolf, if there’s something you need to—”

"It's nothing, lass, I'm just… lost in thought."

Krosa cocks an eyebrow and crosses her arms. "We both know that's bullshit, Bryn—"

“There’s nothing, lass, really. I’m just… lost in thought,” Brynjolf says as lightly as he’s able. “I’m trying to decide… which route I’ll take.”

She drops his hand, clears her throat. “I, uh— I’ll see you sometime, then,” she says quickly, a dusting of pink on her face. Then she turns and leaves with great haste. Brynjolf half-expects her to turn invisible on the way. He smirks. Some things will never change. 

* * *

Raysha throws open the door, satisfied with how loudly it slams into the wall. Xariel remains unstartled, fully dressed in his ebony armor, his sword strapped to his hip. The room is bare and a pack is on the bed. Raysha crosses her arms.

“Someone said you were packing,” she says, voice laced with venom. “I told them they need to get their eyes checked because there’s no reason for you  _ to  _ be packing.”

“There are easier ways to ask if I’m leaving, you know,” Xariel says, as casually as he says everything. 

“Coward,” she says, storming into the room. “You promised you wouldn’t leave!”

“And you promised everyone that finding Krosa wouldn’t take long.”

“It’s not my fault that dragons have appeared out of nowhere, and  _ you’re  _ the one who encouraged me to find a way to survive through winter in the first place!” Raysha reasons, coming between him and the pack on the bed.

“Survive, yes. Not terrorize this part of the country,” he sneers, moving past her to grab his pack and sling it onto his shoulder. No. No, no, no. He can’t leave. He  _ can’t _ . Who else will train her? Why can't he stop being so  _ perfect? _

“How else was I supposed to get the money we needed?” she demands. “How else was I supposed to earn their respect? Are you really so hard-assed that a little—”

“You murdered an innocent man!” Something tugs in her then— a nagging emotion tied to a string that she cuts. She doesn’t need regret. She did what she had to. She would do it again.

“I couldn’t back down after what I said. I would have lost all of their respect!” 

“And in so doing, you have lost mine instead.” There is only disappointment in his voice— not so much anger. But she would rather he be angry. Anger can be softened, but disappointment always lingers.

Raysha scowls. “You think you’re better than me.” Everyone is, apparently. Everyone knows more. Everyone is more worthy. Important. Why can't anyone see she's Just as strong, just as smart, just as capable as any of them.

“Isn’t that the way it’s supposed to be with a teacher and his student?” Xariel says mockingly. Has he been silently mocking her this whole time? Amused at her struggles? Using her for his own entertainment?

Raysha lets her voice simmer with her anger. “Don’t get smart with—”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself," he says in warning. "You may lead the others, but you have never been  _ my  _ master.”

“What changed?” Raysha asks, scrutinizing his every breath. His every word. His every action. He won’t tell her. She knows that, but if she can come to a conclusion herself, then he’ll have no choice but to defend. And in his defense, she'll have her answer. “You think I can no longer give you what you want, so you’ll just toss me aside? For someone so intent on being noble, you sure do flake like a—”

He whirls on her. “You’re a wild card, Raysha. You don’t follow any rules, you pick and choose which ones suit you best. I only stuck with you so long because I thought you would improve. But I see that is not the case.”

“But—”

“What would your brother say when he sees what you’ve let yourself become in his name?” he asks, silver eyes cutting her down to the bone. “Do you even think he would want you to exact vengeance in the first place?”

Raysha is thrust back to that day. The day he left. He promised when he was ready for the Arena: he would send for her; he would teach her what he knew. Give her a chance to live her life how she wished to. She never was one for domestic life. Planting, sowing, reaping. Cleaning, sewing, sleeping.

The boys who would flounder about looking only for a girl to lay with and the girls who wanted to be laid. And the love that’s supposed to come from it? She never understood it. She never wanted any of it. Her brother was always the one wanting to get married and settle down. He was always quick to forgive. So soft and easy to mold. It was almost too easy to take advantage of him— as many girls he thought loved him did. It was always up to her to teach those girls a lesson.

And he was always trying to teach  _ her _ a lesson.

‘Just be patient’, he had said. ‘Your time will come’. He was lying. He was always lying to her. Trying to make their life seem better than it was. And if he believed his own lies, then he’s as daft as the rest of them. Those who enjoy a life amongst cow shit, horse shit, noble shit. 

_ We’re starving,  _ he’d say,  _ but we’re still alive enough to enjoy what we eat.  _ Maybe it’s a good thing. A blessing in disguise. Everyone has to suffer at least some of the time— it makes their lives more interesting. It builds  _ character.  _

“No,” Raysha admits to Xariel, chest tight and burning. “But that is why I must do it!  _ Someone  _ has to!” And she’s the only one who can. She’s the only one that could. That  _ would _ .

“Is that true, or is that just what you tell yourself to make you feel important and principled?”

“And what about you?” she counters. “You said you needed to find her more than I did.”

* * *

“That hasn’t changed.” Xariel says, not sure if it counts as a lie. It is truer now than it was back then. Before it was a mild interest— a side benefit while he bided his time for the dragons to appear. Seeing Krosa again in a world that isn’t in ruins, seeing her happy and free— hoping that somehow this time would be better. And maybe there is still hope for the future. That maybe all of this wasn’t for nothing. And maybe  _ she  _ is that hope.

There is only one way to fix his mistakes and ensure he doesn’t miss his chance again. It should be easy, considering all that Raysha has done, or rather, all that she  _ would  _ do, if she had the chance. She may not be the Dragonborn this time around, but that is the only guarantee. All it takes is one moment for everything to go wrong again.

But there’s something so  _ sad  _ about it, something that stays his hand. He wants another chance— how can he deny another theirs? What is the right thing to do in a situation like this? With the world in the balance?

“I can’t let you steal her from me.”

“She does not belong to you, so there will be no ‘stealing’ involved.”

Raysha doesn’t get angry like he thought she would. He watches the steel seep into her spine. Readying her against whatever may come. “You never intended to help me kill her, did you?” she asks, voice hollow. He knows she doesn’t need him to answer. “Then why go through the trouble?”

“I wanted to help you, not to kill, but to change. I see now that you are beyond helping.”

“So you’ll kill me instead?” Xariel smirks as her hands go to the hilt of her blades. She still thinks she can beat him. But Raysha never could land a hit— not unless he wanted her to.

“No,” he says, dropping his guard. “You are not as much of a threat as you think you are. I expect that soon after I leave, the others will turn on you. Then maybe you’ll finally learn what you need to.”

“What makes you think I’ll let you leave?” Raysha asks, unsheathing her swords. Xariel can only smirk.

“What makes you think you can stop me?”

The moment she lunges, he’s gone.

  
  
  



	16. Questions and Answers

Hey guys! Sorry for the wait, I've been working a lot on my original (not skyrim-related) Krosa story and it was hard to get back to this one!

* * *

_ Idiot.  _

_ Idiot. _

_ Idiot. _

_ Idiot. _

There is no other word than that one, and Krosa repeats it with each and every step back to Dragonsreach. She welcomes the cold that blasts through her with every turning of the wind. The ice that tames the fires within. She’s burning. About to burst. She doesn’t want Brynjolf to leave. She thought she could handle it, but— Why is she doing this? Why is she— 

Falling. 

Failing.

Fear.

Flames.

_ “Fight it.” _

Krosa blinks, and she’s in her room. It’s dark. Too dark. Something could be hiding in the darkness. The shadow figure in her mind could be anywhere. The mass of eyes and tentacles watching. Waiting.  _ You’re being dramatic,  _ she tells herself. And with a twist of her hand, she illuminates the room in iridescent light.  _ Why does it look like that?  _ It’s blinding, glimmering, and makes her senses go crazy.

_ “You know what this is.” _

It’s not right. None of this is. Krosa calls the ball of light back and the darkness returns. She doesn’t know which she prefers. She turns to the fireplace and lights the logs. There is still darkness in each corner, shadows shifting with each flicker of the flame.

Candles. Surely this room has them, right? One in each corner. That should do the trick… right? But first she has to find them. Where should she start looking? Where can she go where the darkness won’t reach her first? Where?

The desk. That would be a good place to look. But the desk is halfway across the room, only the front of it illuminated. Not the chair, where someone could be sitting. Where something could be waiting. And something  _ is  _ waiting.

Yellow eyes stare back at her.

Krosa’s eyes widen, and she wakes with a shudder. The room is dark, but it's no longer terrifying. The fire has died, only the embers glowing. The warmth from the flames are gone, but the cold is its own form of comforting.  _ I was dreaming?  _

_ “If that’s what you want to call it.” _

_ “It seemed so real.”  _

_ “It took a while before I could snap you out of it.” _

Krosa leaves her bed and goes into the dark sitting room, throwing a ball of light to the ceiling. It’s normal this time, the white light stretching to all corners of the room. She takes a seat on the cold chair at the desk, and takes a deep breath. Normal. Everything is normal— except one thing. Charcoal dust litters the top of the table, smeared in some places and hard to get off.

Brynjolf was sitting here last— she forgot about that. He wouldn’t tell her what he was doing, but if she had to take a guess… she opens the drawer. Papers thrown together and stained with black and gray look up at her. Krosa pulls them out with a smirk. She knows what they must be. Drawings. Piles of books, the fireplace, the chaise, a goblet, what might be s horse, and— a face.  _ Her  _ face. Multiple times. Some scribbled out. Some from different angles, or with slightly different expressions. 

_ Trying to get it right.  _ Krosa hopes that’s not a smile she feels on her face. It makes sense that he would choose to draw her: her face has been the one he’s seen the most of when he drew this.  _ That’s why he did it,  _ Krosa tells herself. But then she gets to the last one. This one’s not just charcoal— it’s inked as well. It’s crude, the lines hesitant. She doesn’t know how else to think of it. Every scar is in the right place, and the eyes shine with a hint of life.

It’s not perfect, but it makes her smile just the same. Krosa takes it and a few of her other favorites and sticks them in her journal where she keeps his unopened farewell-letter. Then she pauses, looking at the last entry in her journal. It’s been a while since she’s written in it. She starts a new page.

_ ‘Brynjolf can be trusted. He’s a friend.’ _

_ Is that too brief? _ It seems like it is. She considers writing more when the light goes out. She didn’t even notice it dimming. There’s a knock at the door— more of a pounding, really. It’s the only noise that penetrates the darkness… the darkness she’ll have to cross to answer it.  _ Don’t be a coward,  _ Krosa tells herself, then gets out of bed and crosses the room with nothing but a flame in her hand. The knocking comes again. Tentative, quiet. Her heart does the pounding instead. 

_ “Am I still dreaming? Is this a trick?” _

_ “No. It’s real.” _

“Open the door, please!” She can’t tell whose voice it is.  _ Don’t be a coward. _

Krosa opens the door.

“Etienne? What—”

He shoves past her and into the room. Starts looking around frantically, making a mess of things. Muttering under his breath. She watches him for a moment, wondering if she should just leave him in here and get some fresh air outside... But she promised Brynjolf to look out for him. Krosa closes the door, locks it, and lights the fireplace.

“What are you doing?” she asks, wondering how he even made it past Ulfric’s guards in such a state.

“Looking,” he says, knocking into a table and turning over the chaise.

“For what?”

“It’s important. I have to find it.” He moves to the bookshelves on the other side of the room. When it’s clear what he’s about to do, Krosa grabs his arm and pulls him away. She turns over the chaise again, and forces him to sit with her on it. He does so sheepishly.

“If you tell me what you’re looking for, I can help you.”

He shakes his head. “Esbern told me not to tell anyone else.”

“Why?”

“Safety. The Thalmor wanted him and his secrets. That’s why they took me, but I never told. Not a thing, until...” His face falls, and there’s a sheen to his eyes. An understanding of sorts. Then he sighs, “He’s dead now, isn’t he?”

“Delphine never told you?”

He shakes his head again, fiddling with the sleeves of his dark gray robe. “No. Ask. All she does is want questions asked. No. The other way around. Sorry.” 

“Do you answer them?”

“Vaguely.”

“What kind of questions does she ask?” 

“The same ones  _ they  _ did and more, worse ones. She knows things that she shouldn’t and things that no one would. I don’t like her much. Are you going to make me? You’re the Dragonborn, you could.”

_ Worse ones?  _ What could that mean? And if Delphine’s asking the same questions as the Thalmor, do they know whatever she does? The thought is unsettling. It makes her check the dark spots of the room again, hoping no one is watching or listening, before deciding to focus solely on the last bit of what he said. It’s hard to imagine what sorts of answers he could have. Will they actually be helpful or are they not as important as they seem? 

But whether they are or not, the fear in his eyes at the statement makes up her mind for her.

“Only if you wanted to tell me. I won’t make you do anything you don’t want to do.” He looks grateful only for a moment, before looking down quickly.

“Useless. I’m so sorry.”

Krosa sighs. “You’re not the only one who feels that way.” 

“But… you’re—”

“The Dragonborn, I know. That’s all anyone cares about these days. And I— I feel like I should know more.  _ Do  _ more. Not doing anything terrifies me, but doing something and failing or— or making the wrong choice terrifies me more.” 

Just thinking about all that could happen and all she  _ could  _ be doing sends her down a spiral of fear. Fear with a certain comfort to it— No, a safety. One that both paralyzes and energizes. Stills her hand but makes her mind run wild with possibilities. The look of understanding in his eyes urge her to go on.

“I wish there was some kind of guide that told me what to do, where to go and when to do it. And why, I guess. How. All of it. Then maybe I wouldn’t be so—” So,  _ what?  _ Krosa shakes her head. Why is she even saying any of this? “Sorry. I don’t know what—”

“People always tell me things. I was always good at solving for them. There’s a puzzle in it all. Something to figure out. To solve. Like a riddle, I suppose. I suppose that’s why Esbern took a liking to me. I was a thief who asked too many questions at first, but I guess some of them were the right questions. They helped him answer questions of his own.”

Before Krosa can say anything, he gasps and gets to his feet.

_ “Shit.  _ That’s right, I have to— No, wait. I wasn’t finished explaining. I want to help you. The looking can wait.” He sits back down again, hugging his legs close to his chest. “What was I— no, you don’t know. That’s right. That’s what it was about. Knowing and not knowing and which is better or worse. Right?”

Krosa blinks. “You don’t have to—”

“Please let me. It’s part of who I was before. I want to feel like that again,” he pleads, and Krosa sighs. Some answers  _ would  _ be nice. After all, that’s what she wants, right? Guidance. Structure. Something that makes all of this seem simple, like a game with rules and limitations.  _ You hate games,  _ she reminds herself. She never learned how to play any besides Vander’s games.

_ “What have we got here? Two little rats fleeing in the night?”  _ Krosa feels her throat start to close as the images of that night invade her mind. What they did, what  _ he  _ did. Her pulse starts to race.

_ “What’s happening?”  _ her dragon asks, and Krosa shoves the memories back in their box and throws away the key. It should be a while before she finds it again. It doesn’t help the feeling.

_ “Nothing. Leave me be.” _

The dragon only sighs, and Krosa turns to Etienne as she gets to her feet. “Do you mind if I leave and get something to eat while you think?”

“Yes, I do mind,” he snaps, and Krosa freezes.

“Oh. Um—” 

He laughs. “It was a joke. You see? Me again!” He gives her a tiny pat on the shoulder as she turns towards the door. “Oh! And bring me something with flavor, if you can! They’ve only been feeding me bland things.”

As soon as the door closes behind Krosa, she takes a deep breath. 

_ “He’s a little—” _

_ “Don’t.” _

_ “You’re thinking it too.” _

_ “Then why do you think I need to hear it from you?” _

_ “Rude.”  _

_ “You wanted to tell me something before. What was it about?” _

_ “I don’t think now is a good time.” _

_ “Apparently, there will never be a good time. Just say it.” _

The hall is mostly empty, though she sees guards lining the entrance to the hall. Ulfric wanted some in front of the door to her room, but Krosa refused. Maybe Ulfric gave Etienne a room in this wing. One of the doors she passes is wide open, darkness within.

It takes the dragon until she reaches the kitchens to answer.  _ “The other dragons were keeping who I was from me. They don’t want me to know. They think it will help you in some way. They never trusted me, but I was the only one who had a chance of… taking over you.” _

_ “Why were you worried about telling me this?” _

_ “The last time I told you something, you went— oh, what’s your word for it?” _

Krosa scowls. He could be lying. He was starting to make her think it was something urgent and life-changing, and for a short while she was hoping he never would share it. She  _ could  _ check to see if he’s lying. He reads  _ her _ thoughts most of the time, so it would only be fair. But she can’t bring herself to do it. And it’s possible she could lose herself too.  _ Besides, it’s better than nothing. _

If she had a plan, any plan, she would have a reason to leave this city in the morning. It shouldn’t be too hard to convince Delphine they need to leave. She’s probably as restless as Krosa is, and Ulfric—  _ shit.  _ She’ll have to go to Falkreath, where the Alik’r may still be waiting. If Ulfric’s soldiers fail, she would basically be handing herself over to them.

_ “You could defeat them. Easily.” _

That’s right. Why does she still fear them? She’s more powerful now, not even the Thalmor could take her down. If she had to face Vander and his men again, she could tear them to pieces with a single word. The other times they tried to take her, she was able to get away. And if she had others with her— but who? _ No,  _ Krosa thinks,  _ that doesn’t matter.  _ She’ll do it alone if she has to. To the dragon, she says:

_ “I guess it’s the only lead I’ve got.”  _ She feels as relieved as he does.

Maybe she doesn’t need Etienne to solve anything. But by the time she makes it back, arms piled with a dozen burned biscuits, three different types of meat, and a wheel of cheese, he has an answer for her.

“Life wouldn’t be worth living if we weren’t able to make choices of our own. Anything can happen in so many different ways, who is to say which one is best?” he says proudly. “Especially if the result ends up being the same.”

Krosa doesn’t know what to say to that. How would knowing exactly what she should do take away her choice? She’s  _ choosing  _ to do it, and if she really did have a choice, she’d choose to have such guidelines in place. And of course what she chooses matters. Whatever choice she makes will either save the world or aid in its destruction. She sighs. This is why she hates thinking about stuff like this. It won’t change anything anyway. 

Besides, she’s already made up her mind.

“Thanks,” Krosa says when she realizes he’s still waiting for a reply. “I’ll… take that into— Um–” She looks down to her arms, and dumps it all on the nearest table– “this is all they had.”

“I’ll take the venison and cheese please,” he says, digging in with great enthusiasm, letting her know just how much he appreciates each bite with a moan or a ‘damn this is good.’ He moves on from the venison and cheese, and shows no signs of stopping soon. Krosa frowns. She should have grabbed more food.

* * *

Brynjolf’s plan to distract himself from Krosa with another woman has failed. Immensely. He knows that the moment he wakes up the next morning. Usually, after a tumble he feels better than ever. But there’s something not right— there was the whole time. Everything about it was wrong. He even called the woman by the wrong name, for Dibella’s sake. The woman only laughed and said she was intrigued. Brynjolf thought himself lucky.

Now, he wishes none of it ever happened. She should have gotten offended and left, but she only demanded more out of him instead. He obliged enthusiastically, eager to erase Krosa’s name from his lips and her presence from his mind. It didn’t work. And as desperate as he was, he let it happen.

What would Krosa think?

The words ‘feckless cad’ and ‘that’s what you do best’ come to his mind.  _ I really am nothing but a scoundrel.  _ He huffs out an empty laugh, then gets dressed. Ignores the woman still sleeping in the bed. Feeling worse-off than before, he leaves Ivarstead.

Krosa said he reminded her of someone, a  _ him.  _ Naturally, Brynjolf’s first guess would be that he was a lover of some kind. But it’s hard to picture Krosa ever having a lover, and when he does picture it— yeah, it just doesn’t work out. His gut tells him so, and his gut has never led him wrong before.  _ Maybe it’s just something she’s never been interested in. And never will be.  _ His gut doesn’t like that either.

The world is quiet. There’s a sharpness to it, a contrast of dark and light. But mostly light. It’s peaceful, really… though it hurts his eyes. Pleasantly cold. Well, not really. If it wasn’t for his Nordic blood, he’d be an icicle by now. He misses spring. Travel is far less boring then. And when he returns to Riften, paperwork and planning will be waiting for him.  _ This is pointless. _

He pulls his horse to a stop.

He has to go back.

_ No. _ She doesn’t want him there. She’ll be fine, she’s Krosa— the Dragonborn. Besides, he already warned her about Delphine. She’ll be careful. Cautious. Brynjolf nearly laughs. That doesn’t sound like Krosa at all. She’s paranoid and distrusting, yes, but she’s impulsive and quick-tempered. If anything, she’ll confront the damned woman. Or ignore his advice completely, deciding that it’s not worth her time to worry about. She  _ is _ the Dragonborn, after all. She was intimidating enough already.

Maybe he really was worrying over nothing.

The Embassy comes to his mind then. The Thalmor. They want her, and they’re everywhere. And someone  _ did  _ try to poison her. Someone, he assumes, who was supposed to be helping. He can still see the way she collapsed without warning. With his resources, he could find out more. It  _ has  _ been a while since he paid any of his birdies a visit— there’s been little reason to. Maybe they have something Krosa will need to hear.

And did she  _ really  _ mean that she would rather him be away so she wouldn’t worry, or was she just saying that to make it easier for the both of them?  _ That’s a nice thought,  _ Brynjolf muses. So far that’s the only one that brings him any sort of comfort, despite the loss that came because of it. But his gut still twists in warning.

He shakes his head and moves the horse to a trot.

When he arrives in Riften the next day, the feeling still hasn’t left. What, exactly, the feeling  _ is _ escapes him. But it’s uncomfortable, to say the least. The city is busy as usual. And loud. Nothing’s out of place. The only change is the changing of the seasons. Then why does it feel so…  _ different _ ?

_ I need a drink. _

He has half a mind to go to the Bee and Barb instead of the Flagon. But he has to drop off the packs first, and Vekel may even be able to help with whatever his predicament is. And Vex would kill him if he started drinking without telling her he’s back first.  _ To the lion’s den, then,  _ he thinks with a sigh.

To his luck, the majority of the Thieves Guild are nocturnal creatures. The only ones in the Flagon are Vex and Vekel... and an unconscious Delvin slumped against a wall.

“I hope neither of you bet against me,” he states cheerfully, and Vex merely rolls her eyes.

“Looks like Delvin owes me three coppers,” Vex says, and Brynjolf places a hand over his heart. Three coppers is barely a bet at all, where the Guild is concerned.

“I’m touched.”

“In the head, maybe,” Vex states, looking him up and down. Checking for injury, before narrowing her eyes at him. “You should have returned two days ago.”

“Aw, were you worried?” 

“I had to pick up the slack, and Mercer wasn’t happy.”  _ He never is. _

“Well, I certainly hope  _ this  _ makes up for it,” Brynjolf says, clearing the table with a swipe of his arm and setting his packs on it. 

“You better be planning on cleaning that up,” Vekel calls from over the counter. Brynjolf listens. There’d be no point in asking for his help if Brynjolf doesn’t do something in return. He hears her hold back a gasp.

“Holy  _ shit,  _ Bryn!” She pulls out a handful of the glittering and gleaming stones and chains. He already took his cut of it, choosing one necklace and a bracelet cuff to hold onto, and a few rings to sell. It’s less than he should be taking. But the Guild needs it more than him. Maybe a load like this will get the others off their asses again.

“They don’t call me a ‘master thief’ for nothing,” Brynjolf says, none-too proudly.

“Nobody calls you that.”

He smirks. “Well, they should.”

Vex rolls her eyes. “Maybe they would if you were better at lying.” 

Brynjolf fakes real offense. “What? I’m a great liar. I lie all the time.” And he rarely gets caught, though there have been… instances. Brynjolf cringes when he remembers one in particular.

Vex scoffs, “Yeah. You are. Everyone knows it. They expect you to lie, so it defeats the purpose.”

“In any case, I was hoping you could take it to Mercer. I’m in sore need of a drink and I’m tired of carrying them.”

“Only if I get a cut.”

“Don’t be greedy.”

“Work is work. If you want my help, you have to pay me to do it.” Brynjolf only smirks. He taught her well.  _ Though I suppose I can’t take all the credit.  _ She was almost as good as he was when he trained her.  _ Almost. _

“Fine. You can take five percent of my cut.” It’s pretty much all that’s left of it, anyway. He knows Vex won’t take more than what is owed. She may be a thief, but she’s an honest one. With him, at least. When she opens her mouth to argue, he says, “If you haggle, you lose it.”

“Sounds good to me,” Vex says with a shrug. “You boys have fun with… whatever it is you’ll be doing. Don’t worry, I won’t tell Tonilia a thing,” she winks, then picks up the packs and leaves.

“You let her walk all over you,” Vekel states as Brynjolf makes his way over.

“She deserves it.” 

Vekel gives him a long look, before pouring him a drink. “I suppose that’s true enough. Is there something you wanted to talk about?”

“Yes.” There was going to be more words after that, right? But what were they? He can’t remember. He tries to find them again, to say them this time, but his mouth is too dry. He downs the tankard of mead and wonders how Vekel always knows what kind of mood he’s in.

“Well?” Vekel asks, looking at the empty tankard before meeting him in the eyes. Brynjolf knows he means he won’t fill it again unless the question is answered.

“I—  _ women,  _ well, one in… particular. There’s something— I don’t really know how to say it.”

“Did you get a woman pregnant?”

“What!? Gods  _ no!”  _ Brynjolf exclaims, offended. He’s always careful about such things. “I slept with a woman and, well, there was no reason  _ not  _ to enjoy it. But I… felt sick? Afterwards, I mean. And during, I guess.”  _ Is this what Krosa has to go through on a daily basis? _ He can hardly imagine what that’s like.

“Did she… give you a disease?” Vekel asks with amusement cracking in his voice. He’s enjoying this far too much. Of course the first time Brynjolf actually tries to give him details, he botches it. Ridiculously. So much for more mead.

Brynjolf sighs, head falling into his hands. “Why did I come to you about this?” 

Vekel shrugs, and pours him more mead. “You’re not making the most sense,” Vekel says as Brynjolf starts drinking again. “If you don’t want me to draw the wrong conclusions, just say exactly what the problem is.”

The problem.  _ That’s _ the problem. He doesn’t know what it even is. Brynjolf stops drinking. Is it Krosa? Is it him? Both or neither?  _ Don’t play the fool,  _ a traitorous part of him thinks. He knows exactly what it is.  _ No, I don’t.  _ Because if he did, then he’ll have to say it. All of it.  _ Out loud.  _ And clearly there’s nothing to say. Nothing is coming to him, so he doesn’t know,  _ clearly _ . About any of it.

Brynjolf gets to his feet. “You know what? Nevermind. There is no problem, I was just overthinking it.”

“Bryn—”

“It’s not important, really. I think— I just— Where’s Aiden? I bet he’s been growing restless lately.” Now that he thinks about it, Aiden is usually the first to greet him. And if it’s not Aiden greeting him, it’s usually someone telling him about what kind of trouble Aiden got into while he was away.

Brynjolf hears Vekel sigh in defeat. “At the temple, I think. He was excited about a man who tells stories.”

Brynjolf smirks. It seems everything is working out perfectly today. Whatever he’s feeling will pass. After today, he’ll work his ass off to get the Guild back on its feet, train Aiden, get back into the groove of things, find a woman who will quench his need _ ,  _ and everything will be as they were before.

* * *

More than ever, Delphine wishes she wasn’t alone in this. Her sister would know what to do, and Esbern would be here to answer her questions. Etienne has proved to be a waste of time and Krosa unworthy of trust. Especially after this. She turns back to the book in her hands. A treasure, really. Why no one else has read it astounds her. While the language is an old one, there are many ways to learn it.

_ And now here comes a tale I have not heard before, nor have seen in any history books. While I was traveling in Solstheim, I took shelter in a ruined temple and discovered this. Despite no named author, I believe it has credence. It mentions Alduin unlike many books, and unlike many I know that he once existed and will return someday. _

_ And this man, this… Miraak may have been the first destined to defeat Alduin. He was the only one who could, or so it was thought. But he was consumed by his hunger for power, as all dragons are. You see, after recounting all these lives lived by Dragonborns, it becomes easy to see a pattern. Dragonborns have the inherent desire to overcome— to rule, to rise above. _

_ No other Dragonborn in history has failed in their purpose. You’re probably asking what made him so different. That isn’t as hard of a question to answer as you would think. There are accounts of something we also have never seen before— of him absorbing dragon souls. _

_ It seems that at the start, he was the same as any doom-driven hero of the times. But it didn’t take long for him to seemingly be driven mad. He would talk to himself, became easy to provoke into violent rages. With each and every soul he absorbed, he became less human. Less in control. And so much more like a dragon. _

_ And aren’t dragons evil at heart? In folktales, it is said that what they cannot rule they will destroy. Is that why Alduin will no longer settle for turning us back into slaves for his bidding? Will he be so blinded by his rage? That the only way to rise above us all again is to be the only one left to stand? _

_ In any case, I’ve gotten ahead of myself. Apologies. _

_ It is unknown what happened to Miraak, but the one who wrote this account believed he had actually joined Alduin, serving as a Dragon Priest and ruling over those he was meant to serve. It struck me as I read this, knowing my translations are not as polished as they could be. The Prophecy of the Last Dragonborn— it only says the wheels will turn upon the Last Dragonborn when Alduin awakes. Who is to say that throughout all this time, it hasn’t been altered in any way? But even if that point is moot, it made me think of something far more chilling. _

_ The Prophecy says nothing about the Last Dragonborn being the only one who can defeat Alduin— or even that he’s destined to. I mentioned at the beginning the possibility of multiple people wielding the power to defeat Alduin, and if this man’s account is true, it doesn’t have to be the Last Dragonborn. _

_ The Three Tongues were the ones to defeat him the first time— possibly even defeating Miraak in the attempt as he seems to have disappeared around that time. It may not have been as surely as it could have been, but they insured his banishment for thousands of years. A magic trick of some kind, it has to be. Oh how the Nords nowaday would love to hear it.  _

_In any case, all this leads to further questioning regarding a Dragonborn’s abilities. What does it mean to be born with the_ _soul of a dragon? Especially when throughout history, dragons have only served one master. Not Akatosh, their creator, but Alduin._

_ But that’s only one way of—  _

Delphine closes the book, and puts out the candle. She has all the information she needs to know. Reading through it again would be pointless, besides she knows she won’t be able to focus on it. This makes sense in so many ways. The end of the world, rising above— that’s the Thalmor’s goal as well. There is no way they  _ can’t  _ be connected.

What if all of this was engineered by them?  _ Krosa didn’t believe me, but what if she just didn’t want  _ me  _ to believe? _ But even if Krosa hasn’t been working for them this whole time, she may be now. Possibly without even knowing it. The girl  _ is  _ simple enough. Krosa returned from the Embassy with a friend, one who seems to be a practiced liar and clearly more involved in such things than any normal person should be. He could be in on it too, trying to get Krosa to side with them. And there’s not just the question of whoever  _ that  _ man is.

Krosa is as temperamental as they come and is getting harder to control— and something Delphine previously ignored comes to her mind. The cave. The journey to Whiterun— She  _ has  _ already absorbed multiple dragon souls. That’s another thing—  _ absorbed.  _ Taken. Used. Not destroyed. Never once has it been said otherwise.

Delphine turns to the dossiers, Krosa’s in particular. She knows better than to doubt Thalmor information. Despite her hatred of them, they are known to be well-informed on almost anything. It seems Krosa’s always been close to slipping off the deep end long before absorbing any dragon souls. If she can murder that many people before even becoming Dragonborn, who is to say how many she can kill now?

Fear pierces her heart.

_ How am I supposed to go up against a monster like her?  _ Victim or not, Krosa needs to be stopped. Poison is always an option, but the poison Delphine has in mind is hard to get. Besides, she still doesn’t know how the ancient Nords were able to defeat Alduin, and it seems she may never know. Without that knowledge, Krosa still is the only one who can defeat him. But once she does, there would be no reason to delay. In fact, it would be paramount that Delphine should act. Someone with such immense power as the Dragonborn cannot be left to their own devices for long.

And it will be up to her to follow through with it. There’s no one else in the world who knows what she does now. 

Delphine gasps. And maybe there  _ is  _ someone who can help. If it really was magic that defeated Alduin, surely the College of Winterhold would be the best place to find the answers she seeks.

* * *

Nazir throws the girl over his shoulder. She’s a feral little one, that’s for sure, and doesn’t know how to shut up. He’s glad for it. If she was anything like Krosa, he isn’t sure he’d have the stomach for what he may have to do.

Her and her people put up a good enough fight once they realized what was going on. But by then, it was too late. They may have gotten a few hits in, but that’s all. They’re the worst kind of Alik’r— all talk, all cruelty, a little luck. But their luck ran out, and now they’re burnt to a crisp.

The stench of their burning bodies was so satisfying it was almost poetic. He only wishes it was him that thought of it, but the idea goes to little Babette. Maybe he’ll let her keep the girl as a gift.

What does she know? Has she gotten close to finding Krosa? Nazir had considered sending a note with a courier, but he didn’t want to take the risk of revealing where Krosa was if she had been in hiding. Maybe now he could. Surely she’d want some answers of her own. Maybe he should leave the questioning to her. Give her the justice she deserves. The possible long wait may even make the Alik’r girl more likely to talk.

Having made up his mind, Nazir smiles.

“Well, I’ll be. I didn’t know your face could do that, Nazir,” Gabriella teases.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

It’s a long trek back to the Sanctuary. The others swap stories of their favorite fights and kills, congratulating each other on a job well done. Nazir may have allowed himself to smile again, but no more than once or twice. But by the time they reached home, they were all dragging their feet.

None of them were prepared to see what was waiting for them.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed it, and please don't forget to leave a kudos or review! Thank you for reading!


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